The Thirteen Stories That Were Untold
by amazingshania
Summary: The victory tour – twelve districts and the capital city. The twelve times Katniss Evergreen falls in love with Peeta Mellark, and the one time she figures it out.
1. District 11

_Welcome to my story! First of all, shout out to the amazingly talented theatricalveggie. Their story, "As If You Have a Choice," has me so obsessed with Katniss and Peeta's relationship, that I couldn't resist making my own Victory Tour story. Seriously, if you are not following that story, you need to!_

 _All the chapters in this are planned out and most are prewritten, so I imagine I will be able to finish by the end of summer. I can't make any promises on updates. But I will try to get it all out as soon as possible. I'm just dying to get these ideas out of my head!_

 _This story is isolated in the Victory Tour, is canon-divergent, obviously, and I'm going to be taking some creative liberties, some of which won't line up very well with the book. One of which will be very obvious in this first chapter._

 _There will be 13 chapters: 12 districts and the capitol. They should feel mostly isolated from one another, like a bunch of one shots with a common theme._

 _So without further ado, I hope you enjoy this first chapter. I'm looking forward to getting into the future pieces I have planned!_

 _..._

Chapter 1: District 11

...

District 11 is hot and dry as Katniss and Peeta take their first steps off the train, Effie's bright pink heels clicking obnoxiously behind as they promptly descent the platform.

The star-crossed lovers are solemn, the reaction to their speeches yesterday still fresh on their minds. Linking her arm with Peeta's as she sees a camera approaching, Katniss wonders of the old man's family. Wonders how many others she has put at risk with her thoughtless behavior. Could they not give a speech without screwing everything up? She feels Snow's presence on her now, she hears his warning, she smells the blood on his breathe. What a stupid, stupid girl she is.

On the agenda today, Effie told Peeta and Katniss early that morning, is a tour through the work fields and food processing plant. The sun beats down heavily, sweat breaking out on their pale foreheads, as Peeta and Katniss trudge on, counting down the seconds until they can escape back into their respective sections of the train and wait until the next stop, the next act, the next kiss, the next nightmare. Step after step, they trudge through the dirt road, utterly out of place as the fields and factories come into view.

"My, my, " chortles Effie, her voice screeching an octave higher than normal, "What a reception, one would think a car would be provided for our victors!"

Katniss grits her teeth, scowling. Of course there isn't a car, District 11 is nearly as poor as 12. There are far less trivial things to be concerned with when one is focused on trying to survive. Peeta seems to sense her frustration and squeezes her hand, as if in reassurance as they press on.

"It's alright Effie, we can walk," Peeta turns, laying a hand on Effie's shoulder as if to calm her fretting as she fluffs up her bright pink wig, she shoes still clanging, step after noisy step.

"Yes, but my shoes dear! They're satin, and they're covered in dirt! These are vintage!" she hollers, wailing, as she gestures to her shoes, covered in a light sheen of dust. Katniss thinks she looks utterly ridiculous, her eight inch platforms, her heels so sharp they leave indents in the soil, her wig that's slowly slipping down the side of her face.

To this, Katniss snorts, a smile ghosting her face for the first time since the tour began. She looks at Peeta, his smirk mirroring hers as they burst out in laughter, howling in an eruption of hilarity as they walk hand in hand, down the bone-dry dirt road, their faces craning up towards the bright blue sky. Katniss notices the way the corner of Peeta's eyes crinkle in mirth, and decides she likes it.

"What's so funny children?"

...

The fields are dreadful, and Katniss cannot understand to what purpose having the victors tour the premises is supposed to help anyone. She only wishes to leave, abandon this dreary place in the dust upon which she walks and try to forget about this endless nightmare. The men and women in the fields work, like machines, pushing through the sweat, heat and pain. She knows those weary faces, the ones that cover the blackened miners faces in twelve, and she only wishes she could help – though she and Peeta have surely caused enough damage. Behind her, she can hear Effie prattle on abut production, and oh, the poor dears. She can feel her rage growing and pulsing, pounding against her carefully constructed wall to protect herself. She knows Effie means well, that she is shelteredr and unaware and helpless. She knows they have agreed to protect Effie, to spare her from reality, to protect her innocent vision of the world. Though she cannot help her rage, for her escort, though harmless and whimsical, is a citizen of the capital, thoughtless and utterly aggravating.

Her face of stone nearly breaks as she watches a small girl, one who immediately reminds Katniss of Rue, stumble across the pathway, dragging a heavy pail of rice behind her as she struggles to keep up with the pace of the peacekeepers. She sees the lash of a whip, red and swollen, tainting the mocha complexion of the innocent child, as she sweats in the sunshine.

She can feel Peeta stiffening as he takes in the child as she moves away, a peacekeeper following her group, whip in hand. Barking orders as the stragglers struggle to keep up.

She squeezes his hand, palms sweating. A reminder. Just a few more hours, just a few more days, just until its over.

Peeta's face is stone just as hers, his jaw clenched, his eyes storming. She can see how close he is to losing it, how desperately he wants to protect that girl. The boy with the bread, of course he wants to help. As he always has. As he fed her. As he bartered off his lunch every day at school for far less than he had. As he gave part of their winnings to the tributes. But he can't, they can't. They really truly can't.

She hopes he can understand the words she cannot tell him. She hopes he knows that she understands, that she is horrified, and scared, and angry. She hopes he knows that he is not alone.

As they make their way to processing and packaging, the cameras show up, and she tries to act interested. For the cameras. She must do an awful job, for Peeta wraps and arm around her, pulling her close to his chest, hiding her scowling face in the crook of his neck. She inhales his scent, seeing the Mellark Bakery in her mind's eye, her limbs slowly relaxing as she breathes in the scents of home.

"Laugh like I just said something funny," he whispers, his lips ghosting along the side of her neck in what must appear to be a very intimate action.

She shivers at the sensation, her spine tingling, though she follows his lead, leaning her head back, staring at the sky, as she lets out the most convincing laugh she can muster. Her efforts must not have been very convincing, however, for Peeta quickly pulls her back into a kiss, his lips capturing hers languidly.

Suddenly, she cares little of the cameras.

"hmmm-hmmm," they break apart suddenly, interrupted by their disgruntled tour guide. Katniss nearly breaks out in laughter at Effie's shocked expression, the smiles of the workers, the annoyance of their guide.

At least that'll give the cameras something to work with, she thinks.

The tour quickly ends. She remembers little, her mind elsewhere – thinking of the girl, Peeta's hand in hers, their disastrous speeches, the torture that was yet to come. Effie prattles with the tour guide, her pitch loud and obnoxious, trying the patience of the already worn woman, with a frown etched on her once lovely face.

"You wanna get out of this place while we got the chance?" Peeta quietly whispers in her ear. She glances at him them, his eyes full of mirth, as she nods in reciprocation frantically.

She glances at Effie, the guide is distracted, speaking with her as she talks incessantly about God knows what. A feeling she cannot quite identify rises within her. Elation? Excitement? Nervousness?

Anything for one more moment, one more hour, one more memory away from that train, from Effie, from the tour, from Snow.

Grabbing his hand, she leads them away, sneaking quietly along the far wall, ducking beneath shipments, heading in the opposite direction. Sneaking through the exit of the food processing plant, she can't help the gleeful laugh that escapes her lips as they run, hands clasped together as she pulls him faster, faster, faster into the heart of the district. They run past fields of workers, children playing in the street, mothers carrying their little ones. Katniss runs and runs, dragging Peeta's heavy tread behind her until the fields disappear, until her breath comes in short bursts, and until they begin passing small identical brown houses.

"It's like the seam," Katniss muses aloud as they slow to catch their breath, "but clean."

There's a small child who plays in the dry dirt, drawing images in the brown dust with a worn stick. A slender woman hangs her clean laundry, a crying infant in a basket nearby. Two boys run quickly past Katniss and Peeta, ball in hand, as they shout in excitement. And a group of men stand around a tree as their children play around them, softly discussing.

And then there is one who sees them. Who really sees them.

She approaches them slowly, with caution, like an anxious animal. She's small, yet her face is aged, and looks to be nearing reaping age. Peeta's gaze is elsewhere, but Katniss knows this girl, feels her presence as the two look upon one another. Perhaps a part of her feels like this cautious girl, unsure of the next step to make. Swallowing, she suddenly seems to make up her mind, briskly making her way to the star-crossed lovers, her gaze determined as she stares Katniss down.

"You're Katniss." She states, matter of factly, looking at Katniss as if she is deeply analyzing every pore. As if unsure if she can believe her eyes.

"Yes," Katniss responds, her smile forced an unfamiliar, "and this is my district partner, Peeta."

"Me and Rue were neighbors. Are you neighbors? Lots of grownups get married to their neighbors."

The words catch in Katniss's throat as the innocent child looks up at the pair in reverence. Peeta leans down, crouching in the dirt to speak with the child, as Katniss looks around, noticing the prying eyes. A pair of round brown eyes peek at the victors from an open window, before quickly darting away, out of sight.

"Not quite," Peeta murmurs, his voice soft and gentle. "Our mentor lives between us." She smiles then.

And so the child, whose name they still do not know, leads Katniss and Peeta deeper into the houses as children play and women work beneath the beating sun. She climbs up a tree then, nimble like Rue, innocent like Rue, and Peeta grabs at her hand, as if to say, "I'm here." She clings to his hand, and imagines a world where the small and lithe girl from 11, jumping from the trees, could return to play once more above the ground.

The wind blows, the heat radiating more intensely, as Peeta softly suggests that they just might need to make their way back to the train, before the hounds come out looking. They are following the girl again, having made a loop as she showed then Rue's handouts. Katniss believes this is for the girls benefit rather than theirs, therapeutic, and trudges on in silence with Peeta by her side.

Touching the child's shoulder, she turns around to face Katniss, as Peeta takes a breathe.

"Marybelle Mae! Be a good hostess and invite the victors in!" A woman, who must be the child's mother smiles, carrying a baby on her back as she sweeps the porch, her face aged by the sun.

Hesitantly Katniss and Peeta follow, knowing they really must return to the train, but unable to refuse the child.

The home, one which would have looked such like Rues, is comfortable and homey, though small. A toddler plays in a large basket in a corner, a few blocks and a doll surrounding the small figure. A kettle boils on the stovetop. And worn window coverings flutter in the light breeze.

"I imagine you must be hungry. Lord I can hardly imagine how you managed to make it this far into the district. I thought you were taking a tour of the processing plant?"

"We were," Peeta responds, as the small woman rummages through the cupboards, removing a bread box with cheese cloth covering. "We may have run away from the cameras." He says, as Katniss smiles, grinning at Peeta's almost _guilty_ expression.

"Well run far you did." The woman responds, her eyes lit in a kind smile as she sets a familiar loaf of bread on the table, much to Katniss's protests. "I'm sorry it's just the tesserae bread." She says softly, cutting chunks for Katniss and Peeta.

Katniss swears she won't touch it. Wont so much as smell the warm bread. She won't take one more thing from these people. She's already ruined it all.

"Have you by chance tried using egg whites instead of the whole egg?" Peeta asks, happily receiving his slice with a grin. "We've experimented with the tesserae grain quite a bit at the bakery, trying to make the rations as good as possible. If you can whisk up the egg whites before adding it to the flour mixture, something about it makes the grains cook smoother."

"We do have chickens. It really works? Darla and I have been putting in more berries than normal to try and hide the texture." She questions, taking a small bite, the fragrant berries making their presence known.

"Growing up as a baker's son, we were surrounded by food, but none of it was for our consumption. The tesserae isn't much, but at least its consistent. My father and I would cook bathes at a time in different ways, and my mother would supplement it with apples or pork if we could spare a pig. The egg whites so far are the only thing we have found to work well," Peeta concludes, taking another bite, reveling in the sweetness of the ripe fruit.

Katniss reels, as Peeta and the women continue talking. She assumes their conversation revolves around baking. Peeta took out a tesserae? How many times was his name in the reaping bowl? Surely the bakers couldn't be poor, with the baker giving out bread before it went bad, the numerous unequal deals he made her. They couldn't have been poor. Peeta must be fibbing. He must be.

How much did the Mellark's suffer because of the baker's kindness?

...

"You really took out a tesserae? But you're a merchant!" Katniss questions, scowling at Peeta as they lean against a shack, Peeta having stopped to tie his shoe.

They're finally making their way back to the train, the sun quickly fading. The woman sent them on their way with kind words and full bellies. They never even thought to ask her name. Selfish.

"I hate that class distinction – merchant and seam. It's just another way to divide up, make us fight over who has the largest pile of crumbs," Peeta replies, rising to his full height. He places his hands on either side of Katniss's head, leaning in closer.

She gulps.

"The seam learn that merchants are stuck-up, rich, and fat. And merchant children learn that the seam are a bunch of promiscuous, lazy, and dirty pigs with no ambition to better themselves. Life can't be a constant tally of who has what. The class divide is just another way to control us. Because while all of our food, our resources, and our wealth is transported to the capitol, we are left to fight for the scraps, like scavengers. While the capital owns us, we are all going to suffer, not just seam." Peeta responds, his eyes storming.

Katniss's eyes widen, panic lodging in her throat at the rebellious words that escapes him. She hopes there are no cameras to pick those words up. How could Peeta put himself in danger like that, again? Panicked, she pulls him to her, if only to stop him from talking. She kisses him, once, twice, three times, until he responds, pulling her closer. She shivers as his thumb caresses her hip, warmth pooling someplace deep within her as she pulls him closer, deeper into her. His tongue traces her lips as she feels this heat, inviting and all-encompassing. It makes her smile.

Pulling away, he smiles. Pressing his lips to her hairline, he murmurs a silent apology. But she knows, of course she knows.

Her face flushed as he steps away, her mouth struggling to form the string of sentences she wishes to convey. She wants to say that she's sorry, that she understands, that she knows his anger. She wants to say that she likes sneaking off, the feel of his kisses, the kindness in his eyes. She wants to say thank you, for the bread, for his care, for being here, with her. But she says instead, "I never thought of it like that."

They move away, walking down the dirt road, picking up dust with their tread as they race the sun across the sky. The birds chirp, the wind sways, and the sun slowly descends, father and farther as two heads, one dark and one fair, make their way to the train, awaiting their next destination.

"Life isn't always black and white Katniss– we live much of it surrounded by a sea of gray."

 _..._

 _I know I know, Peeta probably never had to even consider a Tessarae, so why did I put this in here? Food represents ownership. While citizens cannot feed their children, the capital exerts tremendous will over their kin. As a baker, subject to quota and a strict supply chain, I suspect that growing up, Peeta was very aware of the control the capital had over his family. He lived a special kind of torture, only able to eat stale goods, while at the same time, giving extra away to those that needed it. Despite his status as the statute of goodness, I believe Peeta was always a rebel at heart, and the use of Tessarae in this story is one of the ways I attempt to show him as someone who wants to be free._


	2. District 10

Chapter 2: District 10

….

The star-crossed lovers of District 12 walk together back to the train. Today is their last night in District 10, and their relief is palpable in their eager enthusiasm to return aboard. Katniss's back trembles, exposed to the cold air in her sparkling evening gown. She is surprised District 10 was wealthy enough to have a gala for this stop in the tour, though not disappointed.

The train finally stumbling into view, Katniss and Peeta quickly board, breathing a heavy sigh of relief as Peeta firmly shuts the heavy metal door, symbolically closing this chapter of their nightmare. But as he turns he nods, offering half a smile before retreating, silently, to his side of the train.

She watches him leave, silently, and an emotion that she does not understand passes through her. Frustration? Disappointment? Anger? This has been their unspoken agreement for the past week. But she misses the closeness they shared in District 11.

She almost feels as though she has lost something she never had.

Whatever that means.

There were no words, no discussions. But as Katniss and Peeta re-boarded the train and left District 11, in synchrony, they retreated, silently, away from one another. Katniss knows the boundary, where her side ends and his begins. They have silently agreed never to cross this barrier, only joining again for the cameras.

She's not sure how it came about, or who initiated it. But after the intimacy in 11, it is probably for the best, to keep this space.

She wanders her way to her side, passing Haymitch passed out, drunk, in the dining car. Odd he never made it to his bar car. She can hear shrieks of delight from some unknown location in the train. She assumes the prep teams, whom never seem to make an appearance beyond their prepping duties, must be having themselves an after party. The faint sounds of joyous laughter fading, Katniss wearily makes her way to her room, a mysterious force almost pulling.

It is within the private confines of her room that she allows her mask to slip. She's exhausted. The nightmares weigh heavily on her, as does the stress, the guilt, the defeated look in Peeta's expression, Haymitch's glossed over eyes, the act, Prim's duck tail, the cold endless distance between herself and the boy with the bread.

She hasn't slept well, not since the games really, but the tour has only heightened the nightmares. She misses the warmth of Prim's frame, slipping into bed with her after a nightmare, offering comfort from the images she cannot spare her sister from. Here, she is hopelessly and utterly alone.

She wonders how Haymitch could bare it, without a district partner or mentor.

Granted, Peeta may as well be a stranger at this point.

Her dress easily falls to the floor, heavy and held together with two flimsy straps. She stumbles to the bathroom, naked, knowing she will regret mishandling Cinna's creation in the morning, but in her state unable to care.

She peers in the mirror. A stranger looks back. She looks flawless with a rosy complexion and dramatic eyes. The grey in her iris's smolder, radiating health and power. But the eyes themselves, simply dead and helpless. She starts the water and scrubs away the makeup, watching the colors seep down the drain. She scrubs and scrubs, erasing the lies, the deceit, scrubbing and scrubbing until her face is red and stinging ever so slightly before she turns off the tap.

If only she could rinse out the Girl on Fire. She's Katniss – it's all she's ever wanted to be.

…..

She's running through the forest, her lungs burning, bow in hand. This feels like home. Her feet innately know where to step as she runs silently through the roots, moss, and rocks further and further into the wood.

Katniss halts as she stumbles across a familiar face. An enemy. A boy. An innocent.

"Girl on Fire, fancy meeting you here," Cato snarls, wielding his sword as he towers over her, stalking her in the way a mountain lion may approach its next meal.

She quickly notches her arrow, raising her bow in protection, arms trembling.

"Silly girl," he drawls shaking his head with a smirk. "Didn't you know you can't kill the dead?"

And so she drops her bow, running farther into the woods, her breath coming in heaving gulps as she tries to hang on. She stumbles, choking back emotion at the overwhelming guilt that consumes her.

She runs, past fellow tributes, all dead, as they snarl and plead and cry to her.

"Why'd you kill me Katniss."

"We'd all be better off if my knife killed you first off."

How could you let me die?"

"I just wanted to survive."

The voices continue, rising in panic and crescendo as the path narrows, leading her to a familiar white suit.

President Snow stands in the forest, surrounded by his dead tributes, spinning a small knife in his palm. A game. She eyes him warily, smells the blood on his breath, the lies on his teeth, the deceit in his grin.

She jumps as he tosses the knife to the ground, unwanted, like a game. She leans down, letting out a sigh of relief as she grasps the weapon, like an extension of her own arm. And the pair look upon one another, hatred in their eyes. Her lip curls, his eyes squint, like a snake.

"We're alike, you and I, Miss. Everdeen," Snow taunts, his lips curling, his eyes sparkling.

"No, I'm nothing like you."

"Bloodthirsty, selfish, analytical. We're two sides of the same coin. Sacrificing others for the good of the many. Killing for love, for sport – no difference really. Girl on fi-"

"Stop it!" Katniss cried, snarling as she plunges the knife deep into his gut, ensuring a slow, painful death. She feels the immediate relief, the powerful release of revenge as she breathes it in, relishing.

Only it isn't President Snow.

For Katniss's eyes widen in horror as a pair of blue eyes open in pain. The boy scrunches up his face, howling as he clutches his gut where blood begins quickly darkening his dress shirt. The bloodied knife falls from her grasp, forgotten as she lunges forward.

"Katniss," he whispers, weakly, falling to his knees as she clutches him, pulling his blond head towards her.

"Peeta, Peeta no!," she cries, sobbing, frantically ripping apart her shirt as his blood continues pooling. Her fingers won't work, his blood drenching his entire front beginning to pool and drip onto the forest floor. He gasps, gurgling as his mouth fills, remnants leaking out of the corner of his lips. "You'll be okay, please, you'll be okay!" She cries, pressing her strips to him, trying not to look at his pale face, trying not to listen to the gurgles, trying to forget she just stabbed him, Peeta Mellark, the Boy with the Bread, the victor of District 12.

"How could you kill me?" he gurgles, his voice weak.

His head falls back and she clutches it back into place, willing life back into his limp body, willing him to smile, to breathe, to bake once more. But he can't, for the Boy with the Bread is no more, pale and dead, drenched in his blood. All her fault.

And so she howls, tears blur her vision as she clutches him closer as the forest absorbs her screams.

Through her howling, she can just barely detect maniacal laughter.

…..

Katniss Everdeen awakes screaming, her voice horse. She is disoriented, kicking and flailing, falling off her bed before she comes to. And when she does, the abstract horror she feels is so paramount she cannot remain. Grabbing her robe, she runs from her compartment on quaking limbs, barefoot, as if she can make the bloody forest disappear behind her.

Closing her door, she stands in the cold hallway, trembling.

….

Katniss decides that she quite likes darkened train walks illuminated by the moonlight. She reveals in the peaceful silence, hearing only the slight breeze of the wind, the sway of the train, as they are pushed farther, deeper into Panem. One can surely think themselves to death out here, she thinks. Or run away.

Whatever.

The tips of her fingers ghost along the wall as she walks, taking in the silken texture of the plaster, breathing in the ruminating silence. She glances at her feet, small and innocent, and wonders what it would be like to be her feet. Small and insignificant.

She closes her eyes as she walks, trying to rid the ugly claw of distortion from her mind. Her dream, the guilt, the fear seems to weigh upon her like a prison in which she may never escape.

She isn't sure where she is, the train seeming almost foreign in the moonlight. She wanders without thought, barely conscious of her moving body, only set on getting as far from the dark claws of her dream as possible.

She knows she's wandered into forbidden terrain when she sees a body hunched over in the hallway.

Creeping slowly, not making a sound, Katniss approaches the boy as she would a wounded animal. He holds his face in his palms, breathing heavily, as he rocks his body back and forth slightly. She sees how he harshly pulls at his locks, scratching too aggressively. They're one of the same coin.

For the first time since escaping the arena, she doesn't feel utterly alone.

If Peeta is startled as she sits silently next to him, he doesn't show it, continuing to rock and sigh into his palms, his shoulders tense, his fingers scratching. She understands enough to know that he is troubled by something. A deep need to comfort and help rises within her, however, she finds herself pausing. Her arms reach up, only to pause in mid-air, in question.

He chooses for them. Reaching out, he pulls her hand to his, clasping one small hand in two thick ones. He brings their clasped hands to his forehead, breathing deeply, as if in pain. She watches.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Peeta asks, turning his head to look at her, their hands still held against his forehead.

"N-no," she stammers as she looks into his glossy eyes. "No, I was already up."

He cocks his head, his eyes questioning as he takes her in. He won't ask, not for more than she's willing to give.

"It's the nightmares, I-I couldn't stay in my room," She responds, breaking eye contact as she remembers the same pair of eyes grimacing in pain. Katniss sighs. "I figured I'd walk until morning."

He understands, this she can decipher in his eyes.

"I run," Peeta offers, releasing her hand as he straightens up, leaning against the wall, extending his legs, mirroring her position. "When I wake up I get dressed and run around the district until my lungs or leg can take no more, and then I paint until the sun comes up."

She gazes across the hall, looking upon the moonlight peeking through the window as they sit in silence. The train slightly swaying.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, his eyes seeking.

"No, you?"

"Not particularly."

And so they sit in companionable silence, shoulders lightly brushing together with the sway of the train. She wonders what plagues his dreams. She closes her eyes, and sees a bloodied knife, feels terror and remorse and panic.

It's too much, she needs to move.

The pair walk the halls, silently back and forth, until Peeta veers them towards the grand living room, as to respect their sleeping companions. The train is silent. Other than the slight whistling of the wind, and the heavy thumping of Peeta's uneven tread, Katniss could imagine them everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

They pace back and forth, eyes on the quiet ground. For once, the boy with the silver tongue has nothing to say.

Blood, blond hair, eyes, roses.

"Distract me," Katniss whispers, her pacing halting as she peers at Peeta with a pleading expression. "Tell me a story, help me forget."

"What, a fairy tale? I don't know very many, but I could prob-"

"No, no, umm, tell me about your life. Something not everyone would know," She suggests, moving to sit on the far end of the couch, pulling her legs together tight, tucking her knees beneath her chin.

Peeta moves too, mirroring her position on the opposite side, staring at the wall as he collects his thoughts. He smiles slightly.

"I had just started baking by myself and I was very excited. We had an order for a birthday cake for Madge and my father decided to trust me to handle the baking by myself. I was so nervous," he laughs, smiling at the memory. "Little did we know, Rye has swapped the confectioners sugar with salt to get back at our father"

"Did you notice?" Katniss asks, her brow furrowed.

"We kept our sugar in this giant bin, and I never thought to check. And so I baked the cake, my father decorated it, and as we were walking it over to the Undersee's and out came Rye, barreling towards us, running off with the cake before my father could make the delivery. And I just remember his head bouncing back to the bakery with that disaster in his arms while we stood in front of the Mayors house, dumbfounded." He laughs, shaking his head at the memory.

"What of the cake? Did Madge get something?"

"Father whipped up a cake and delivered it in the middle of her party. And as for Rye – well, Mother was so angry with me for wasting ingredients, and Rye felt so bad, that he served my punishment for me, eating every piece of that sinful nightmare."

He shakes his head, remembering the fond memory, smiling and smiling.

And so they talk, facing once another on the soft plush of the couch on opposite ends, their legs slowly relaxing until they begin to tangle. She tells him about hunting with Gale, he reminisces about playing with Delly Cartwright. She tells him about Buttercup, he talks about his eldest brother's pet frog. She tells him about her father's death, he tells her about his Mother. Back and forth they go, scooting lower on the couch until they both lay with heads against the armrest, looking at the swaying chandelier.

An unknown amount of time passes. For every minute feels like a mere second.

Peeta is in the middle of describing the strict and heavily regulated quota and supply merchants in District 12 are subject two, a concept unknown to Katniss and much of the seam, as her stomach loudly grumbles, interrupting Peeta with a start.

Laughing slightly, his eyes dancing, he asks, "hungry?"

"Just craving more of that cheesecake from tonight. Do you make it at the bakery back home?" she asks, rubbing her stomach slightly in thought.

"No, the ingredients are too expensive, and the Undersees are perhaps the only ones who could afford it." He answers, sitting up momentarily.

"That's too bad, I wish Prim could've tried it."

"Wait here Katniss, I've got something for you," he whispers quickly moving from the couch and down the hallway, disappearing from sight.

Wondering, Katniss shrugs her shoulders, scooting off the couch and onto the floor, dragging the pillows and blanket with her. She curls on the floor, her head resting on the couch cushion, closing her eyes to the quiet sounds of the living train. She smiles, imaging Rye and the salt, cheese buns, and a blue-eyed little boy.

There's a slight beeping somewhere deep in the train and she listens, on and off, on and off until a heavy uneven tread slowly approaches once more.

"You haven't fallen asleep on me, have you?" Peeta asks from behind the couch, having returned as he walks around the front to meet her. He carries a small package wrapped in cheese cloth, cradled carefully against his chest.

She says nothing, instead sitting up fully as he lowers himself to the floor beside her. They situate themselves, resting their backs on pillows, the blanket draped over both of their legs, their shoulders touching.

Her attention turns to the wrapping on Peeta's lap, he as he unravels the cheese cloth, uncovering a single slice of the same cheesecake they had devoured that evening at the District 10 gala.

"How?" She asks, her brow furrowing.

He smiles, looking down. "It's illegal to steal, I know, but you liked it so much I though – I, I don't know what I thought." He answers, smiling sheepishly as he procures a single spoon, handing it to her like something sacred.

She grins then, muscles she hardly recognize she has stretching to accommodate the abstract glee she feels.

Peeta Mellark _stole_ dessert for her.

They take turns, sharing the cheesecake, savoring the rich and decadent texture. She closes her eyes, lips formed around the spoon as he watches. She doesn't know it, but his expression studious and intense, is wholly unreadable.

She lays her head on his shoulder, yawning, as he tells her about his prep team and their antics of the morning. She listens to his soothing voice as he explains their abstract horror to find dried paint caked in his hair that morning. She smiles, remembering Octavia's body hair meltdown at the beginning of the tour. Their prep teams. Their friends. Their whimsical, ridiculous friends.

Her eyes falling heavy, she tells him about Prim. She tells him about Prim's bony body following their father's death. She tells him about her interests, her friends, her growing fascination with boys and gossip. She tells him her sisters favorite color, her love of animals, her captivation with the bakery cakes.

His head rests on hers, their warmth radiating, their eyes closing. She can feel herself chasing something, though she doesn't know quite what. Say something.

"Why is this so easy?" she asks, in a wistful sigh, as she relaxes further.

He squeezes her shoulder. He doesn't need to answer, and he wont bother, for she already knows. They are bonded for life, for it is the star-crossed lovers of District 12 against all of Panem.

…..

And so by morning, as a member of the cooking staff emerges from her bunker, off to the kitchens to prepare for breakfast, she stumbles across two bodies, curled into one another against the couch with a half-eaten dessert lying between them. She smiles pausing for a moment before turning to her duties. Let them have this moment; this sweet, honest moment.

...

 _This was meant to be a very short chapter that took a life of its own. I hope you enjoy it - I for one still don't know exactly how I feel about it. Let me know what you think! Next stop, District 9 will take Katniss and Peeta into the heart of the District with the residents. Should be a fun chapter :)_

 _Until next time_


	3. District 9

Chapter 3: District 9

…..

Katniss feels horrifically overdressed for the small and intimate celebration that is held for her and Peeta at the Mayor's house in District 9. The sparkly and heavily beaded red backless jumpsuit that her prep team dressed her in, one that glitters with every movement she makes, has Katniss feeling like an ostentatious flamingo.

Among the modestly dress of the richest in this poor district, she feels like a spectacle, unable to hide.

Adjusting her straps, trying to temper the discomfort she feels at her exposed skin, she ruminates over frustration at the fashion of her gender. She stumbles in her heels, scowling.

This gala is very small and intimate, and as such, most capital cameras are absent, yet a couple reporters still mull around, interviewing the wealthy of District 9, receiving statements from the mayor, following Katniss and Peeta around for that _perfect_ shot. She feels on display, vulnerable.

And she absolutely hates it.

Peeta is an absolute natural, charismatically charming everyone in attendance, including the capitol elites that have followed them along this tour. They are standing with a fat woman and a man with a blue tint to his complexion. Peeta has them hanging on every word, as the woman flirts and the man wistfully imagines the honor in the arena.

Thankfully however, as the blue-skinned man turns to Katniss, wordlessly, with a salacious grin on his face, Peeta stiffens, wrapping his arm around her waist, making a hasty, yet always charismatic retreat.

She shivers as his warm hand rests upon the bare small of her back, guiding her forward.

And as they reach the center of the dance floor, arms raising into the traditional position of District 9, she tingles.

She's always enjoyed dancing. Her father taught her when she was young, spinning around their small living quarters as her mother watched on, laughing, with the baby bouncing on her lap. Prim would drag Katniss to school dances every year and they would dance together, spinning faster and faster until the world blurred into abstract colors and they escaped with full bellies and happy hearts.

But these District 9 formal dances are a new world entirely for Katniss and Peeta.

The traditional District 9 dance, according to Effie, is called a "box dance". Dancers move together in a square, back, left, up, right, over and over at arms-length from one another. The pair found themselves quickly bored by the standards imposed by the boring dance early in the evening, and as such, had not returned to the dance floor until now. Katniss grits her teeth as they step.

"I miss our dances back home," Peeta whispers from across the imposed distance as they move in their box.

She smiles, reminiscing, moving a little closer as they teeter the boundary imposed by the traditional standards of modesty.

"I remember you dancing with Prim," he whispers softly, a kind smile lighting his eyes. "Her laugh would light up the auditorium."

"She loves to dance," Katniss smiles. "She was always the one to drag me to any district-held event. I think she just wanted to look at boys."

They fall back into peaceful silence. Katniss notices Effie in the back corner, engaging the cameras and elites in conversation as they laugh loudly.

"What do you say we get out of this snooze-fest?" Katniss whispers, breaking the dancing barrier as she stands closer to Peeta, whispering into his ear, a ghost of a whisper of distance living beneath their bodies as they continue to sway, back, left, up, right over and over.

"Effie hasn't given us the okay," Peeta argues, his breath tickling the back of her neck.

"What's life without breaking the rules?" She questions, stepping back to gaze upon his expression of wonder, his blue eyes sparkling.

"Katniss Everdeen, you are an awful influence," he chides, his lips curling in mirth, humor lighting up his expression.

"Don't act so innocent, Peeta Mellark," she responds, in what she hopes is a tease, a smile ghosting her face.

Turning from him, he does not resist as she grabs his hand and pulls them from the dance floor, in what she hopes appears inconspicuous. Breathing a sigh of relief that Effie is still keeping the cameras preoccupied, eagerly soaking up the attention, she leads them to the far exist, furthest from the crowd, as they creep out of the ballroom, entering the Mayor's living room, and slowly sneaking out the back door. Peeta shuts the door silently, smirking in the moonlight.

She smiles as he grabs her hand, walking deeper into the district. She begins turning toward their train, only for him to pull her into the opposite direction, deeper into the residential area. They walk, hands clasped, breathing the night air as they travel deeper and farther into the grain district.

Katniss shivers and Peeta drapes his suit jacket over her. She looks at him in gratitude, already more comfortable and at ease with her back finally covered.

"Do you think they have a curfew here that we're breaking?" Katniss whispers into the silence.

…...

The world is silent, sans the crunching of their steps on the gravel below, their quiet breathes, this sway of Katniss's outfit.

Until suddenly, it isn't.

"What is that, a trumpet?" Peeta asks in question, guiding both of them toward the source of the sound, their plan to quietly walk the night away immediately forgotten. She finds their pace quickening, excitement and trepidation looming as they search for the source.

She _loves_ music.

The buildings turn rundown the louder the sound becomes, like an abandoned merchant sector. Through the darkness, she can barely detect shacks and crumbling infrastructure. It reminds her of the Hob in a way, crumbling and unknown.

They turn the corner, the music blaring as Peeta immediately halts, Katniss running into his back with the force in which he stops. On the other side of the square is a rundown building, much like the Hob. A window is for suddenly there is light. In the shadows, she can see people moving, hear pounding and stomping. The crystal-clear sound of the trumpet and drums fills the square with a frantic beat. Peeta smiles, looking down at Katniss until she returns his gaze, their eyes questioning.

"Shall we?" he asks, offering her his arm as he does before each camera-ready gala and event. Only this isn't an event. This is real. This is them.

Gulping down her trepidation, she loops her arm with his as they move forward, faster and faster across the square. She can feel her head bobbing with the energetic tempo, her body ready and craving this music, this fun. Her happiness blooming and expanding the closer she gets, she suddenly cares not of rules and regulations. She cares not of what they _should_ be doing. As she hears the hoots and hollers of joyous expression from inside the run-down building, all she understands is she wants to share that fun with them, with Peeta, with herself.

…..

"Welcome," a man smiles from a seat on the right side of the hallway. The path is dark, illuminated by the gently flickering of a single light hanging from above. Peeta smiles at the silver-haired man, nodding in acknowledgement, as Katniss looks throughout the hallway, questioning.

"Come on," Peeta urges, grabbing her by the crook of her elbow, guiding the two of them past the hallway and into the darkness, closer and closer to the thumping and laughter. The air is alive, the earth moving.

Katniss briefly wonders if they should be here.

The light returns as they enter another room, one with civilians milling about. A couple sits on the ground in the corner, their chests heaving, a smile ghosting their faces. The woman wears a simple dress, modest, cheap, a dress worn by a thousand women in a thousand lifetimes, in a thousand places. Her partner wears simple overalls, patches lovingly sewed at the knees, heavily worn in the fields.

These are not stuck-up, capitol appeasing box-dancers. These are the poor, the everyday.

This is the seam of District 9.

On the far end of the wall is a curtain and they can see bodies quickly moving throughout the room, their shadows buzzing past the curtain. Someone laughs, and other yells, over and over as the trumpet plays, loud and energetic. The space is pounding, the music pulsing.

Peeta smiles, looking at her with that soft and gentle smile that she has come to appreciate throughout their tour. She recognizes it as his real smile - the real him. The smile he offers when the cameras are gone, when they talk in her room, when they share a roll at breakfast, when he offers a hand. It's the smile he smiles through all of their happy and real moments - the times they can be friends, allies, Katniss and Peeta.

This is a real moment - this is not for the cameras or the act - this is for them.

And she can't decide whether they should be doing this, enjoying these real moments, with Peeta's gentle smile, and that warm feeling she doesn't understand growing and pulsing within.

She swallows as he smiles and waits, standing in front of the white curtain, waiting, for her. Taking a breath, she takes his hand as they take a step forward. It doesn't escape her that she is making the conscious choice to make these real memories with Peeta. The thought terrifies her.

The only emotions she can detect as they enter the loud room is overwhelming excitement. The lights flicker, candles and lanterns lit where bulbs are not present. A dark-skinned man plays in the corner, dancing to the energetic melody he creates while a group sits around him, lightly singing and humming. There's food in the back, bread and drinks that some men and women lounge around, munching and chatting, shouting over the noise in the room.

But the dancers are the most exciting part, yipping and yelling. Most of them wearing overalls and work clothes, they spin and jump and fly throughout the room in a tempo so fast, Katniss can hardly believe they can keep up. A man lifts his partner, up and down and up again, before throwing her back to ground. She flies, like a bird, landing gracefully, never missing a beat as they tap, and spin, and throw their bodies back and forth.

The room smells like sweat. Sweat and laughter.

She looks at Peeta, grinning at his shocked expression, his brow furrowed in confusion. He isn't the most graceful dancer, especially now with his leg. She can see the wheels turning as he tries to decide if he can fly with her.

He arches her brow, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips as she smirks.

"Come on," she says, smiling as she leads him to the back. "Let's see what District 9 bread tastes like."

He feet thump as he follows, his tread uneven as he goes, thump, thump thump, behind her. They pass civilians and she notices how their conversations dull as they pass. She tries to ignore that Peeta and her have entered their domain, tries to pretend to be invisible.

It's easier to pretend.

…...

"Surely that can't be any good twelve," comes a gentle voice from behind as Katniss and Peeta turn, the small piece of bread they're sharing cradled in Peeta's warm hands. Katniss's mouth is full. District 9 bread, browned with multiple grains, and a snapping, crispy crust has her greedily grabbing for more. Peeta grins - the charismatic victor coming out to play.

The woman is short and thin, wearing torn work overalls and a bandana, keeping her curly hair from her face. Her skin has been kissed by the sun, her hands worn by the fields.

She and Peeta talk as Katniss slowly munches on the last of the bread. Her name is Rosie, she works in the fields, her husband stands beside her, quiet with a kind smile. His hands are rough and worn, his freckled neck burned by his labors in the hot fields.

She tunes them out, as her gaze follows the dancers as they move, faster and faster. A sturdy man throws his partner in the air as she yips, spinning once before he grabs her again spinning them to the other side of the room.

"It's impressive, isn't it?" He asks quietly, coming to stand beside Katniss as they gaze at the crowd of dancers, his eyes crinkling in kindness.

"What is this?" She asks instead, responding to his question with one of her own. Her mind whirling, as she imagines the practice and effort to learn such a complicated dance. What an entirely different world this is.

"Can you keep secrets victor?" he asks instead, his voice steady yet fierce. She nods in agreement, leaning in slightly. "It's an outlawed dance from before the Dark Days. Nobody really knows what it was called back then, but we call it the Dance of Flight."

As another man swings his partner around his shoulders and torso before throwing her through the air back to ground, she can see why the name be so fitting.

The song changes, another instrument she doesn't recognize joining in. Couples retreat and fill the dance floor. A slew crowd the back walls, their faces red, panting and smiling from the fruits of their labor. Her foot taps, her body singing as the yips fill the room once more.

"Do you do this dance, this Flight Dance with Rosie?" she asks suddenly, breaking their silence.

"Believe it or not, I have to beg this one to give me a break here and there, "he smiles, gesturing to Peeta and Rosie as they walk back to them, laughing about something.

"Oh don't listen to him twelve," Rosie jests, throwing her hand across his shoulder as they grin wickedly. "Jason here is a freak for dancing."

"How did you all learn to dance like this?" Peeta asks, coming to stand beside Katniss once more

"How does anyone learn to dance? You let the music dance for you!" Rosie responds, reaching over to grab Katniss's elbow, leading her away from the table.

"Come on Mellark, I can see your girl is dying for a dance." She calls over her shoulder.

Katniss looks back, her expression lost, as Peeta follows slowly and with trepidation. Bodies grow thick, breaths heaving, deeper into the crowd as Rosie leads them away. He gives her that soft and gentle smile, his expression shy as he follows, thumping through the crowd with an uneven treat.

She's surprised how one smile can make her feel so at ease.

Rosie halts in the far-left corner, closest to the music and group of singers, gesturing for Peeta to stand in front of Katniss. She takes Peeta's blazer from Katniss's shoulders, and her bare shoulders bristle immediately with goosebumps in the sweaty air. Katniss looks up at Peeta as he gazes down at her, forgetting about Rosie and the dancers for a moment. His gaze intense, it steals her breathe away for a moment.

"Close your eyes." Rosie calls, breaking through the blur as Katniss complies. Suddenly, she's acutely aware of Peeta's soft breathe.

"Listen to the music. Can you hear the thumping? The trumpet has a voice, listen to that voice. What is it telling you?" She asks. Katniss listens, her eyes closed. She sees energy and love as she allows the music to absorb her. She sees a child rolling down a hill, a girl laughing, a baby jumping, Prim spinning in her pretty dress, a steady hand.

A small feminine hand grabs for her own, bringing it forward until it rests on a sturdy body. She can feel Peeta's heart steadily thumping below her palm, his chest lifting slightly with every breathe, until his large baker's palm does the same as hers, resting lightly above the swell of her breasts. She's acutely aware of his hand as she tingles.

"Listen to that voice, feel the beat of your lover's life. Remember that you may have never felt this again. What do you feel?" She asks, her voice soft and kind.

"Proud." Peeta answers immediately, opening his eyes as he gazes at Katniss's closed expression, her brows knotted together, her face intense and focused.

"Relieved." She responds after a moment. Because she is. She's really and truly relieved to be here, feeling a boy's heartbeat beneath her sweaty palm. She opens her eyes and his smile back.

"Let the music live in your soul. Feel the happiness with your partner and let the trumpet's voice tell you what to do." She suggests, moving away slowly until suddenly, Katniss and Peeta, though surrounded by a stage of dancers, are utterly alone.

He gulps, she can tell he's nervous as he reaches for her hands. Her chest tingles with the loss of touch, though she doesn't quite understand why.

"I'm no quite sure how to start," he admits, biting his lip nervously, stroking her left hand with his thumb, his eyes shy.

"The bread is my most treasured memory." She suddenly blurts out after a moment of uncomfortable silence. He looks at her, confusion etched on her face. She feels the words lodge in her throat. Where is she going with this? Say it.

"We filled up on mint tea and that hearty bread, with nuts and seeds, and I tucked Prim in with a full belly. An-and then the next day, we were looking at each other at school, and I saw a dandelion and realized I would survive." She finishes in a rush, her head spinning.

He looks at her and smiles, his hands coming to rest, his fingers splaying in the crook between her neck and shoulder as she trembles from the contact.

"I survived because of you." She whispers.

"No, Katniss, you survived because you are wise, and smart, and talented," he pushes. "I didn't do anything."

"You did everything," she breathes. "we survived because I had hope where there was none. I survived because of you." she repeats more firmly this time, scowling, as if to challenge him to dare disagree.

He looks back, his eyes questioning, until he seems to relent, a small smile gracing his face.

"Okay."

"I survived because of you." She repeats again, though she doesn't quite know why. Katniss simply knows she is supposed to say it, needs to say it.

"Okay."

"We are only here now because of you." She finishes, unsure of this thing passing between them. The word seems to drift away as they look at one another, his thumb still stroking the crook of her neck. She wants to melt.

"Come on," he smiles, dropping his hand as he leads her deeper into the crowd. "Let's figure this out."

She can't hear the music anymore, her world suddenly centered on his hand in hers as he leads her away.

…..

It starts out awkward as they fumble around. Peeta is unsure and insecure on his leg. She knows he feels as though a part of him is missing, as if he'll never be whole and capable ever again, and she feels awkward and on display, twirling in her sparkling jumpsuit in a crowd of field workers.

"Look at me," she suggests. "Look at me and listen to the music." She grabs his hand, spinning them quickly as she taps and bounces to the erratic beat until he begins to follow, growing more confident the more they spin and twirl and fling themselves from side to side, his eyes never leaving hers.

Peeta gains confidence, taking over as he flings her left and right, surprising her as he throws her over his shoulder, gracefully, an expression of his strength, as the surprise taker her breathe away. She breathes heavily, her breathe catching as he grabs ahold of her hand, pulling her away as they step faster and faster, growing in confidence of this tempo.

She realizes this is what the dance is about, an overwhelming expression of happiness. She thinks about the feast of lamb stew in their cave, of cheesecake and secrets, a gentle snore, a quiet laugh as she smiles, leaping and grasping onto the memories as the music takes her over.

A light sheen of sweat overtakes his forehead, and she looks at his ashy locks, his blue, smiling eyes. She hears his voice in her mind's eye as they dance, the sounds suddenly blending with the secrets whispered underneath a swaying chandelier. She's dancing to Peeta, to the music, to this feeling she's chasing again and again, building and pulsing until it explodes over and over as she jumps and leaps and steps and smiles again and again.

He twirls her again and she spins, her feet tapping as the world blurs in florescent colors, faster and faster. He flings her from side to side, harder and with increasing energy as she floats above the ground, jumping to the song. His warm palms snake around her waist, gently, pulling her back and forth as they quickly move to the music, traveling throughout the room as the pace quickly grows frantic. She looks at him them, his face flushed and sweaty, his eyes gleaming. They bump into another as they dance at arm's length, tapping and swinging their limps to the beat, jumping and stepping side by side as the music envelops them. He laughs and she flies, like a bird.

He spins her, around his body, she jumps away, twirling as he pulls her frame from one side to the next, tapping and jumping. And then she leaps and he lifts her up, and down, and up again. before she returns once more to the ground.

They're hot and sweaty. His face is red, her hair is an utter mess, cascading out of her careful up-do, sticking to the sweat accumulating on the back of her neck. Yet they are both filled to the brim with untapped joy.

He twirls her again and she leaps, his arms catching, her back arching. She hears voices as she dances, speaking to the beat. His eyes sparkle as he gazes upon her. He flings her away and she smirks, stomping and swinging her hips as she gestures him forward, her arms extended. He comes forward, stalking, like an animal as she twirls.

She feels her own smile brewing, her forehead lifting, the corners of her lips turning up once again. The feeling inside her swells even more than she thought possible.

She loves to dance. She loves to dance with Peeta. She loves _this_.

He grins again, that soft and gentle smile he gives to her morphing and growing, until it overtakes his entire face as he grins, wider and wider. His eyes twinkle, the corners crinkle in delight.

And when he smiles, she swears he is as radiant as the sun.

…..

 _I hope you enjoyed this one! I found it difficult to write and I'd love to hear your thoughts. For anyone who wants a visual representation, the District 9 dance Katniss and Peeta are enjoying was in my head, inspired by the Jitterbug and other forms of swing dancing. Its fast, fun, and hard! Next chapter will take Katniss and Peeta to the District 8 train station (exciting, I know!)._

 _Till next time :)_


	4. District 8

chapter 4

….

She isn't sleeping. How can she really? Staring at the forlorn faces of dead tributes, celebrating their victory, reminding others of her murderous nature, she can hardly tolerate it. At night her stomach churns, the revulsion returning, as she swims in fears of death, suffering, and hunger.

She must succeed, she has to convince Snow, she needs to appease him. How can one sleep with a mind buzzing and rolling in so much anxiety, fear, and anger?

And so, she wanders the night away, her eyes heavy, her limbs stiff and awkward as she awaits the rising sun. Every night feels like an endless torment – wishing the night to be over, yet dreading the day to come. An endless nightmare. An endless cycle.

She passes Peeta's room again, hesitating momentarily, her fingers lightly tracing the smooth oak, as she hears a thump, a groan and a pitiful cry.

Without thinking, she barges into his room, her throat thick.

She's frozen for a moment, taking in the scene before her, illuminated by the moonlight peeking through the windows. Arms that once reached out for comfort clench, veins producing, fists straining.

Peeta lays, writhing on the floor beside his bed, legs tangled in the bed sheet, his body tense, his head swinging from side to side, struggling to maintain purchase. She remembers how he came to her the day prior, awakening her slowly and gently from a terror until she found purchase with the unwavering clarity of his blue eyes looking gently upon her.

His breathes heaving, she runs to his side, unsure what to do, her hands shaking nervously.

She swallows. Do it.

She grabs onto his shoulders shaking him gently, whispering his name in what she hopes to be a calming tone. She calls louder, shaking his shoulder, stroking his chest, watching his face calm and relax until his eyes open.

He's disoriented, not yet aware of his place in the world. She looks at him, as if guiding him to find steadiness in her own gray pools. Sweat pools on his forehead, pupils dilated as he shakes.

"Peeta," she whispers again, her hand coming to rest for a moment on his cheek, as she would for Prim when she awoke from a nightmare in their shared bed. She watches him come to her, as he sees her, really sees her, the blue of his eyes returning, his body slumping with sheer exhaustion.

Suddenly, he surprises her as he rises, immediately coming into a sitting position before her. Before she can react, move away to give him some space, he gathers her into his arms, wrapping himself around her waist, his forehead coming to rest on her robe-clothed chest. She strokes his hair as he breathes heavily, holding her in a vice-grip.

They all have their demons.

After a moment, she crawls into his lap as he holds her close. She can vaguely feel the tears that ghost his cheeks as he shudders, pulling her ever tighter as her hands resume their ministrations. She hums lightly as his palms move up to her hair, undoing the long braid that hangs down, swinging slightly.

When her hair is loose, cascading down as if to form a barrier between them, like a wall, he looks into her eyes again, a shy smile gracing his face.

He touches her cheek as he closes his eyes again, a thanks, as she hums to the quiet room.

….

They work on a puzzle, illuminated by a gentle light in the viewing car. Katniss greedily sips the sweetened coffee Peeta made earlier in the kitchens from their position on the floor as she puts together the border pieces for their puzzle. The floor of course, isn't the best place, but they wanted to watch the sun rise across the horizon, and of course the viewing car, a car with floor to ceiling windows, lacks tables.

She doesn't ask about his nightmares, as he doesn't of hers. She thinks they both know anyway, of the demons they carry, the fear that lives inside them.

Though she wishes that the boy with the bread didn't have to carry this burden alongside her. Their gray complexion, the dark circles under their eyes are suddenly magnified in the light as they silently work, her on the border, he on sorting. His pain in hers, and hers is his.

They're one of the same – if only they didn't need to be.

Katniss and Peeta work from their spot on the floor, until their backs ache and their eyes hurt. And then, they return to the kitchens, for more coffee and treats, before venturing back to the viewing car, whispering over muffins and cookies.

At one point, her body light, they lay on the ground, their unfinished puzzle forgotten. On their backs, they face opposite directions with their heads side by side. She listens to his voice as he discusses mundane stories and happenings, stories that mean little, today, on the tour, as victors. Yet she listens, smiling as he explains how to cook shortbread.

She likes the sound of his voice.

When the sun comes up, they watch it in silence. She tries not to blink, not to look away as the world becomes increasingly florescent and overwhelming. It gives her a sense of peace in some way. The sun is constant. no matter how awful the day to come will be, no matter how grueling, the sun will rise again.

She suddenly understands why Peeta's favorite color is orange.

….

She isn't hungry for breakfast, and Peeta is clearly agitated. She doesn't understand how nobody can notice the flexing of his forearm, the paleness of his face, the catch in his voice. She looks upon him during the meal, absently nibbling on her pineapple as he swallows.

She can practically hear him thinking, and it scares her.

"This will be an easy one." Haymitch suddenly mentions, filling his cup of coffee with another shot from his flask with one hand, while attacking his pancakes with the other.

Peeta's jaw sets firmly, his teeth grinding together as he scowls at his plate.

"Smile for the cameras, read your cards, and we'll be on our way shortly. There's nothing special about District 8," he finishes, his mouth full as he mumbles, ready to shovel more in.

She eyes Peeta, watches his shoulders tense, his jaw lock even tighter. He opens his mouth several times, as if struggling to put his thoughts into words.

"Easy," he says, his voice fading. Katniss can see the speech he wants to spout, but doesn't. "Nothing about today is easy." Peeta says, standing up suddenly he quietly leaves, his plate untouched. She listens to his uneven tread down the hall, until a door shuts and it disappears.

"Well I never!" Effie cries, scandalized, as she looks on down the hallway, fretting as she resets today's yellow wig.

Katniss pushes away from the table, ready to follow.

"You shouldn't have said that," she says, meeting Haymitch's eye, his mouth full of food. They understand each other.

His eyes question as she continues. "We're in District 8 you drunk, ring any bells? We all know this is going to be a hard day for Peeta. Be our mentor! Offer him advice!" Katniss scowls, growing angry as she pushes up to stand, the force causing her chair to fall to the ground with a loud bang. She doesn't care though, as she storms down the hall.

When she reaches his door, she doesn't hesitate this time before barging in.

….

She's startled by the scene that confronts her, jumping back in surprise as Peeta rips a lamp from its socket beside his bed and hurls it at the wall. She watches the glass shatter with a sharp bang. He lets out his frustration, hollering as he throws the clock, rips the blankets from his bed, kicks a small table to the ground before he stops, heaving, his eyes closed.

She isn't sure what to do, how to approach him, so she stays by the door, waiting for him.

"I'm sorry, it's just today, and –," he whispers, his thought unfinished, his eyes at the ground as he trembles slightly. She tries to imagine how vulnerable and naked he must feel. She needs to do something.

Hastily, he begins to move away from her. Crawling over his bed to the other side, he strides purposefully to the bathroom door, before stopping, turning his head just far enough to gesture her over, before disappearing into the bathroom.

She can hear the shower running, see the steam beginning to germinate in the oversized restroom. And before she can process that Peeta is strangely absent, an arm peeks through the shower curtain, pulling her into the warm spray, clothes and all, as she struggles to stay upright. She's taken aback by the shock of it all, tensing, ready to strike, before she remembers it's just Peeta.

They love capitol showers, a feeling that causes Katniss to feel horrifically remorseful, but true nonetheless. With the powerful spray coming from above and the sides of the stall, they are soaked in no time, their shoes drowning, their clothes heavy.

"I can do the talking." She suggests. Its weak, she knows, but she's so lost and confused as she tries to help this boy.

"Thanks, but that's okay," he whispers over the hum of the showers' spray. "I need to say I'm sorry, I need to look at her family and acknowledge the wrong I did."

She could slap him. Feeling sorry for surviving?

"Peeta, you have _nothing_ to be sorry about. We all saw that footage, you gave that poor girl _mercy_. She was going to die and you gave her dignity."

"Don't make me out to be the hero here Katniss, don't you do that." He argues, a frown growing, etching lines on his face as he scowls down at her.

"Sometimes there's a kindness in death."

"How could I have killed her? I didn't want them to change who I am, but I changed on that first night. I'm a murderer."

"Your still you. You are kind, and generous, and forgiving. The capitol can make us kill and fight to survive, but they can never rip us apart and turn us into something were not. Your still you." She argues, moving closer. His eyes soften for a moment, it's the nicest thing she thinks she's ever said aloud to him. But then his expression rapidly changes, as he remembers why he's upset, morphing once again into a face of stone.

"I slit her throat. My hands were covered in her blood. I couldn't even clean it off until the next morning," he whispers, his eyes downcast. "How is that mercy?"

"Sometimes, there's a kindness in death," she repeats again, but as he catches her gaze again, blue eyes looking into grey, she can see that he doesn't believe her, he can't.

She doesn't know how to do this comforting thing, and feels utterly hopeless at it. But when she pulls his wet locks away from his face and he sighs, his sad face melting just slightly, she thinks she might be able to do some things right.

"We just need to get through our tour," she whispers. "Just make our speeches, accept our rewards, and we can go home."

"But this isn't our tour," he fiercely contends, his jaw immediately setting as she feels a speech coming on. "This isn't about us, it shouldn't be about us. We should be grieving and honoring the rest of the tributes. How can we do that, when we don't even know their names?"

She pauses for a moment, collecting her thoughts from the conversations she doesn't want to be having in the first place.

"We can't think like that. Let's focus on getting off the train and making it through these weeks. We can think about that later." She argues, her gut clenching uncomfortably. Guilt? She isn't sure, pushing past it. This is for all their good.

"I don't want to think about it later," he presses, backing up to the far end of the shower where she follows, her shoes sloshing.

He looks like a drenched cat, his curls stubbornly falling in his face as water cascades down his cheeks, across in jawline and down, sprinkling, like a faucet on low pressure, swirling down to the drain. Away.

"The capitol wants it to be about us. They want to distract themselves and the districts from the dreadful things we had to do to survive by making a spectacle out of it. But that doesn't change anything. Don't you see? We killed people. We're murderers. Twenty-two young people had to die so we could live. All those deaths, they have to mean something, they have to."

She's silent. Did Haymitch retaliate, did he make the capitol out to be a fool? Is that why he's utterly alone in the world? She remembers Prim, Gale, the rest of the Mellarks. She can't think like this.

"I can't afford to think like that," she finally responds after a moment, her voice soft, resigned. "I have Prim."

"I know." He whispers, his voice final. When she looks up at him she sees only kindness and forgiveness in his eyes. He understands. He may not agree, but he understands, as he always does.

They stand in the shower and talk longer, their clothes heavy and wet, though they care little. They talk about their speeches, memorizing each word and syllable until it's instinct. When their conversation teeters on rebellion, Katniss leans closer, whispering into Peeta's ear, the sounds of the showers spray drowning out the quiet voices of revolution that escape their tongues.

"I'm glad we have each other," he says later as the shower begins to run cold, water cascading down his nose as she stares at the drips, focused.

"Me too."

She likes this, a reminder that she's never alone.

Afterwards, drenched and dripping, Peeta turns as Katniss drops her soggy clothes, wrapping herself in his robe, escaping into the room as he dresses, her stomach dropping when she notices the late hour. She doesn't have much time left.

She knows what she needs to do as she leaves a calmer Peeta behind in his room. Walking the halls on a mission, she searches until she finds her, sprawled on the dining table, fretting over the days agenda.

"Effie, I need your help."

…..

She doesn't care as she storms frantically into his room, her prep team flouncing hysterically behind her. Her skin feels strange, her hair pinned back with rollers, drenched in a strange goop. But she doesn't care.

Katniss Everdeen is a woman of action, and for once, she has something to say.

She slams open the door, frantically, as Octavia shouts for her to return, their squealing voices raising in horror as she continues to ignore their pleads, choosing instead to step inside Peeta's room. Peeta and his own prep team look up at the commotion, startled. He's shirtless, sitting on a flat bench in the sleep bottoms he wore this morning, chemicals permeating the room from the creams and lotions that have been rubbed into his skin.

He smiles slightly, more so at her disheveled appearance than anything. The cream on her cheeks, the goop in her hair.

His prep team steps away as she approached him on his bench, their eyes unwavering. She imagines another day, she may have found his appearance laughable.

"I've got something to say." Katniss states, coming to kneel on the floor before him as he looks upon her with those gentle eyes. Everything is matter of fact, stern, logical, leaving no room for disagreements or diversions.

"Her name was Bonnie. Her father was a factory worker, and her mother was a seamstress. She was an only child. She could have gone on to be a dressmaker, or a teacher, or a seamstress like her mother. But she didn't, she couldn't. She died in an unknown place, fighting in a war she never started. But when she went, she met with kindness and peace by the male tribute from the poorest district in Panem."

Peeta takes in a breath. She moves closer, her hands resting on the soft material that clothes his thighs, their eyes never parting. She can see that he wants to argue, but also how he listens. He covers her hand with one of his, squeezing, and the world slips away for a moment.

"His name was Batik. He was from the community home. His mother's dead, and his father couldn't care for him, though I suppose we will see his father on the podium nonetheless. He was strong. He did well in weightlifting and wresting. He could identify plants. He was a survivor. But when he went, it was fast, almost easy."

She looks at him with sad eyes as he lets out a shaky breath.

"Sometimes there is a kindness in death," she repeats. But this time, he seems to listen.

How did you?" He asks, allowing his question to die off, unfinished.

"Effie." She replies, looking down at his hands, as she strokes the back of his palms. He did it for her when she was angry and scared before their District 11 speeches. She hopes he finds it soothing.

"You were right you know," she continues, filling in the stiff silence as she kneels before him. "About everything, you were right.

About the tour. About death. About suffering. About ownership and loss and possession. About hunger. About enslavement. All of it.

She hopes he understands what she means, hopes he can dissect the words she cannot speak aloud on this train, surrounded by their teams, on this day.

'This tour is about them. About honoring their sacrifice. About understanding the cost that was paid so we could live." she whispers.

"It about forgiving ourselves for the lives we took, and honoring their memories in a way that casts a legacy." he finishes, his eyes looking deeply into hers.

"You were right."

She wraps her arms around his torso, his forehead coming to rest on the crook of her neck, as they hold one another, their prep teams looking on. His creams cover her robe, the goop in her hair graces his face, but neither care as she clutches him harder still, closer to her, breathing in deeply.

"I'll be by your side the whole time. We don't have to do this alone." She whispers quietly, shocking herself with the conviction in her voice

"Thank you, Katniss." He answers after several moments of silence, his thumb tracing the lines of her back back and forth, comforting, practiced. She doesn't know if this is in response to her research or what she just said, maybe a combination of both, but frankly, she doesn't care. She continues holding him close for another moment, before allowing her prep team to finally pull her away, frantically running back to her room.

Before Octavia pulls her out into the hallway, she catches a quick glimpse at Peeta, at his soft smile and thoughtful eyes. _Good, he feels better_.

And for the first time since this tour started, she feels ready to face the cameras.

….

 _Not much happens in this chapter, but I hope it was enjoyable nonetheless. Next chapter will take place in District 7, which I don't have prewritten, so it may be a while for an update while I brainstorm and mess around with ideas. It is almost 100 percent certain, however, that Katniss and Peeta will be spending quality time in the gorgeous District 7 woods, moss, evergreen trees, endless underbrush, the works._

 _Till next time_


	5. District 7

She's warm and comfortable, a sleepy smile gracing her lips as she rolls over, burying her face in a pillow, inhaling the familiar scent. Here it's safe, and warm, and good, and free. She never wants to leave this bed as she breathes in again the scent of dill and cinnamon that always seems to accompany him. She reaches her arm over, intent to sleepily wrap herself around him, only to find the pillow.

In alarm, she shoots out of bed, her senses on edge, suddenly alert. The sleepy smile she wore a second ago vanishes instantaneously, her face tensing with anxiety.

She tries to control her breathing once she spots him a moment later. He's here, she reminds herself, his back to her, as he pulls his sleep shirt over his head, tossing it into the nearby hamper as he rummages through his dresser in search. She swears her heart speeds up as she tries to control her breathing once again – this time, for an entirely different purpose.

She's beginning to notice things she never noticed before. She notices the blue in his eyes and how they darken and lighten depending on his mood. She notices the calm and strong rise and fall of his chest when he breathes, both now and when they lie in bed, warding off the demons. She notices his worn, calloused hands. And she notices his broad shoulders, the planes of his bac, the ease of his grin.

And now, she notices the ripples of his muscles as he pulls a t-shirt over his head. Averting her gaze, she tries not to stare as she tingles deep down in her belly.

She wants to slap herself as she sits, leveling herself. Peeta is her friend, her good friend. Peeta. Just Peeta.

Yet when he turns and gives her that gentle smile she's beginning to know so well, a smile that's so special and personal and them, she sucks in a shaky breath. What is happening to her?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." He apologizes, looking down at her as he moves to sit beside her on the bed, pulling on his socks as he does, waiting for her response.

He's going running again. Peeta hasn't been sleeping well and this is the forth early morning run this week. She's beginning to worry.

"I was already up," she responds in defense. She can tell by the expression on his face that he doesn't believe her little exaggeration, but he won't press it, choosing instead to lean down, grabbing his running shoes from his side of the bed.

"You can talk to me about them you know." She blurts out, awkward and loud, her chest tight. Uncomfortable. "I understand."

Peeta turns to look at her, one shoe on and the other resting on his lap. "I know," he replies, a sad smile gracing his pale face. She swears he loses more color every day.

He finishes getting ready, putting on his shoes and filling his water bottles, floating around the room as pulls the warm blankets away, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her hair a mess.

"Can I come with you?" she suddenly asks, her mouth moving before her brain has given the okay. She wants to take it back immediately. Peeta loves to run, and she enjoys his enthusiasm, but she feels nothing but contempt and annoyance at the endless and boring exercise. But when his eyes light up in surprise, a small smile immediately rewarding her, she can't find it in herself to take anything back.

"Sure! A running partner would be really nice." He smiles, off to fill another water bottle as Katniss finally drags herself out of bed, stumbling into the silent hallway, her eyes still half closed, towards her room for clothes. Good God what has she gotten herself into.

Her pants are halfway up her legs by the time he knocks on her door. She stumbles, trying not to fall as she pulls the contraption up. Effie says they're called "leggings," perfect for exercise. Katniss thinks they are ridiculous, skin tight and baring all her assets. She feels like a floozy.

She has to admit though, they do make her butt look nice.

He hands her a water bottle as she opens the door, hoping she doesn't appear as flustered as she feels. She hopes the forced smile she gives appears genuine as they walk down the hall together. His leg creaks slightly in his running shoes, the uneven tread filling the silent hallway. She looks at a passing clock, 4am, and yawns.

….

Peeta's pace is frantic, sprinting until his face is bright red, until he slows down to a brisk jog, gulping in air, before speeding it back up. She watches him from where she slowly jogs beside him, gasping for air, pushing his body to the limits, as she worries.

She can tell he is running from something. Running and baking and painting are to him what the woods are to her, an escape, a distraction. But this, he isn't just sidetracking himself from his demons, working through his throughs and feelings until he feels safe again, this, this is running, away from something. Her realization becomes only more cemented as he raises the speed again, stumbling momentarily before taking it in stride.

God, she doesn't know what to do.

She thinks about her own nightmares, bringing her own speed back up to a run in the hopes the time will pass by more rapidly. Peeta's been a starring role in them lately, which she finds particularly terrifying. Peeta dying in their games by the riverside, the mutts dragging him down to the ground at the cornucopia, forcing her to kill him herself, buried to death in a mining explosion like her father, Snow slitting his throat while she watches, defenseless.

And then she has those other dreams, the ones that show up the nights they sleep together, legs intertwined to ward off the nightmares, the dreams that aren't bad at all. Hiking through the woods, a day with Prim, kissing, a warm touch, shiny blue eyes. The dreams that lead her awake with a smile on her face, before the confusion his and she stumbles away from his warmth, lost.

She'll ask him later, she decides. For now, she has her own running.

She begins to understand why he does it. She still doesn't enjoy it, the burning in her legs, the inability in ever absorbing enough oxygen, the soreness in the back of her throat, the lightness in her head. Yet she's also starting to get it. Time begins to fade away, the only constants being the regular thumping of her strides as she pushes further, testing her limits, and the consuming thoughts that resonate about the boy running beside her – infuriating, unwelcome, fascinating.

It's an escape, outrunning her problems, the threats, the fear as she allows herself to become lost in her thoughts. Her gaze returns to a silly capitol program she's been watching to pass the time, a whimsical cooking competition, snorting at the contestant's antics as she heaves for breath, her lungs aching.

They're startled when the door slams and Haymitch appears, already a little drunk, whiskey in hand as he scowls at them. Peeta slows on his treadmill while Katniss stops altogether, jumping off too early, stumbling as her body struggles to adjust.

"On a diet?" Haymitch smiles, taking another swig of his drink, stumbling slightly. "Too many parties for ya?"

She scowls, glaring at Haymitch as she wipes the sweat from her forehead. She hears Peeta come to a stop, heaving before jumping off his own treadmill. He passes her as he approaches Haymitch, clapping him on the shoulder, a quiet smile in his eyes.

"I think we need to get some coffee in you, old man." He smiles, reaching down to grab the whiskey from Haymitch's grasp before the mentor can react, his reflexes dulled in his drunken state

"So bossy," Haymitch mumbles, turning around, intent for his bar car. "Just when I've finally escaped that relentless wig-wearing woman."

They stand in silence as Haymitch walks back down the hall, his tread growing quiet until the only sounds remaining are the fans and buzzing machines. He turns around to look at her, smiling, until they burst out in laughter, doubling over. She has tears in her eyes, laughing until she can't breathe, her face hot. She laughs until her chest aches and she can't even remember what was so funny in the first place.

They've lowered to the ground, facing one another as their laughter slowly dies, turning into sporadic giggles until nothing at all. His hair is plastered to the side of his face, heavy with sweat, his clothes clinging with dampness, his face red. She swears he already looks lighter, the dark circles under his eyes appearing suddenly improved. Katniss still wishes he would sleep properly, but she's also so relieved he is happy, smiling and laughing as if everything it okay.

They quiet at look at one another, smiling. So naturally, she says the first thing that comes to mind.

"You stink." She claims, immediately cringing at its awkward inappropriateness,

Yet he just laughs, standing up, offering her hand as he pulls her up to her feet

"Come on smelly, let's get ready for breakfast."

…..

Everyone is sitting in the dining room, helping themselves when Katniss enters the space finally for breakfast. Freshly showered and dressed in her favorite dress from Cinna, she feels relaxed and happy as she hears Peeta's laugh, grinning in Effie's direction.

She thinks he looks particularly handsome freshly showered like her.

God, what is wrong with her?

"Get lost sweetheart?" Haymitch grins, his eyes twinkling with mirth as Katniss comes to sit beside Peeta. She turns to her mentor, scowling as he grins wider at her, gulping down his coffee with a shudder.

His playful gaze shifts to confusion as Peeta loads her plate with pineapple, her favorite. She steals a bun off his plate, grinning as he tries to scowl at her, failing miserably. He's too good, far too much of a giver, far too interesting in feeding everyone to really be annoyed over a roll. So instead, he rips it in half, her fingers tingling where they touch, long after he has retreated back to his plate, munching on a strawberry.

He leans over, throwing an arm over the back of her chair as she turns towards him as well, slowly munching on her fruit.

"How much you wanna bet Haymitch spiked his coffee?" he whispers as she snorts, trying not to smile. But then she looks across the table at her mentor, swaying slightly in his chair, his eyes blurrily scanning between her and Peeta in confusion, and she can't help it, pulling her knees to her chest as she tries to hide her smile, shoulders silently shaking in laughter.

His arm remains as he continues eating, one handed. Grabbing her fruit once again, her silent laughter having subsided, she turns to look at him, resting the side of her check upon her knees. She likes the feel of his arm across the back of her chair, grazing her neck slightly – comforting, practiced, good.

He looks at her then, his mouth stuffed full, and it should be comical, his face, yet it isn't. It's because they're friends, she decides. She likes this because they're friends. Simply good friends.

"So Effie," Peeta suddenly asks, turning to face their purple haired escort as he butters his toast, thoughtfully. "What's on the agenda for today?"

"Yes, yes of course!" She cries, smiling as she straightens her plate, as if the universe could teeter, unbalanced by an uneven dining set. "The mayor had to cancel today's media excursions, so you have the day to yourselves!" She pauses, looking at Katniss pointedly before continuing. "But please be back by dinner time children. We need to be mindful of the curfew set in place here."

An entire day free. A blank slate in place of their normally packed schedule. She hardly knows what to do with herself. So instead, she turns her head to look at Peeta again, resting her head on her knees as he slowly munches his toast, lost in thought.

….

They find themselves quickly retreating to his room, burrowing themselves back underneath the soft covers. She faces him, cuddled into the soft warmth as they talk, whispering across the small distance in the dark room.

"I wish you'd sleep," she laments, reaching across to sweep his bangs back from where they fall into his eyes. The motion feels strangely intimate as he stills, watching her. Her fingers freeze on his forehead, everything suddenly frozen in time.

"I'm okay," he counters, rubbing her shoulder as her own hand finally falls from his forehead, limp at her side. "Don't worry about me."

"I can't help it," she counters, snapping, pulling away so she can see the seriousness in his eyes.

And she allows him to bury the conversation to the side, pulling her closer, steeling her warmth. His hand rests comfortingly on her hip as they look at one another, their cheeks resting on their pillows. She takes in the cool feeling of it, marveling at the contrast with their heat mingling underneath the blankets.

And then it's overwhelming. He's taking off his shirt, and she's rolling into his bare chest. And its heat, and warmth, and right. And she's yawning, and he's talking about everything and nothing. And then he's sighing, his breathes lulling, as sleep finally begins to drag him under.

"You're a minx," he yawns, wrapping an arm around her body where she is curled around him, like a beloved pet.

So she closes her eyes.

….

When she comes to, smacking her lips, wiping the sleep from her eyes, she hears a page crinkle.

Peeta has barely slept all week, and he's reading. She can't help but scowl, the temporary peacefulness of a mid-morning nap evaporating, like mist.

He's engrosses in his book as she turns back to his side, resting her cheek on the cool side of her pillow as she takes him in. He's pointedly farther in his book, and if he slept, she realizes, it wasn't much. They poked around the small library in the viewing car one sleepless night, and since then, Peeta has been engrossed in reading.

She thinks it's just because it offers another distraction.

He hums, nodding his head as he reads, his world centers on the words bouncing across the page. She buries her face in her pillow, sighing, thinking perhaps a day sleeping while Peeta reads will be a good day wasted.

"Did you know capitol elites sometimes visit District 7 on vacation?" He asks conversationally, flipping the page again as the fragile material crinkles. She cranes her neck to look at him in response to his question, his gaze still focused on his book as if the words were never uttered.

When she doesn't speak, the silence growing between them, he continues. "District 7 has two fences. The first establishes the boundary between the town and the forest. The second, the one that's electrified, establishes the boundary between the forest and the outside. It seems there is one place so beautiful out there, a rainforest, that there's an avox-ran hotel for capitol patrons." He finishes, looking at her with a smile.

"A rainforest?" she asks, the word unfamiliar on her tongue.

"This book says it was once called the Hoh rainforest," he stumbles, struggling with the strange intonation. "Apparently, it's one of the rainiest places in all of Panem." He leans over, showing her an old picture, the sides graying with age. Moss covers everything, the trees, the rocks, the ground. District 7 is so overcome with underbrush, one can hardly walk through the forest, relying on animal trails, she remembers from their brief tour the day prior. But there, one could get lost, the moss having sucked the life out of everything else.

"It's beautiful," she whispers, her fingers ghosting the page, like a whisper. "Nothing like home."

"I wish we could visit," he whispers, folding a corner in his book as he turns, placing it once again on his nightstand with a gentle thud, the mattress shifting with the movement. "I wish we could take a snapshot of every beautiful place in Panem and smell the breeze." He smiles. She tries to imagine him out in the woods, painting, smiling at the trees, scaring off game.

"There's a lake outside twelve that my father used to take me to. And maybe someday I can take you?" She asks, satisfied with the smile he gives.

"I'd like that," he grins, as does she, looking upon each other, their cheeks lightly resting upon the cold texture of their pillows.

The idea hits her suddenly. It's bad, and completely against the rules. But with how many they have already broken this tour, what's one more. The excitement looms as she jumps out of bed, robbing her body of heat as she stumbles across the room.

"Come on, get dressed, I have an idea," she says. He bends down, retreaving his shirt from where he had thrown it earlier as she pads across the room, grabbing the backpack, stored atop Peeta's dresser for the eventual move off the train when they reach the capitol. On a mission, she buzzes throughout the room. Water bottles, Peeta's sketchbook, her boots, coats and scarves. She leaves suddenly, the backpack slung over one shoulder, her shoes in hand, as he follows hesitantly, confused.

Off to the kitchen she goes, grabbing food and snacks, stuffing them in the backpack, running out, leaving the confused cooking staff gaping in confusion

It isn't until she's pulled Peeta off of the train, backpack slung over one shoulder, that she realizes she's still carrying her shoes.

….

"This is so bad," Peeta mentions, taking the backpack from Katniss, tossing it over the preliminary side of the fence, before climbing the fence himself, unstable and awkward – his strength compensating for his lack of grace. She smiles at him from across the fence as he lands, gleaming in mirth before scaling it herself, like a wildcat, easy, instantaneous, like a breeze, landing before him without a sound.

"Lead the way, showoff," he teases, smiling as he slings the bag over his shoulder, following behind her as they race into the tree line, before any peacekeepers can catch them trespassing.

The district 7 woods are littered with underbrush, so thick it is nearly impossible to travel through them quietly. After a moment, Katniss locates an animal trail, narrow but a trail nonetheless. It's difficult to navigate, pulling low hanging limbs out of her way, climbing up rocks, over bushes. Peeta crashes behind her, his tread impossibly loud in these foreign woods.

When she leads them down a slope, the animal trail begins to widen, as they are relieved of some of the underbrush. Peeta holds up a moss-covered branch so she can slide under before he follows, and she revels at the woods, the tall green trees, the smell, the sounds of the small critters milling about.

Off into the distance through the trees, she can just barely see a small body of water, clear and small as a pond, placed delicately into the landscape. She pauses, pointing it out to Peeta and his eyes sing in reaction.

As they descend down to the bottom of the giant hill, the landscape settles into a small meadow. Katniss allows herself to collapse to the ground, sprawling her legs out, as Peeta sits beside her, grinning at the scenery.

"I'd say we did pretty good," she says, leaning into Peeta as he grins. She reaches into the backpack, handing him his sketchbook as he smiles in thanks. Turning around, she walks through the meadow her hands ghosting the planes of the grass, like a whisper. She wishes it were summer so she could pick flowers, opting instead to wander while Peeta draws.

Turning around to glance at him, he blushes, having been caught staring, before returning to his sketch. Yes. This is good for him. Good.

And so, they spend the day breathing the fresh air. It's cold, the ground is damp, but she lays in the meadow nonetheless, her head resting in Peeta's lap as they stare at the clouds together, his sketchbook laying to the side, his picture complete.

This feels easy, like home. It's the foundation of the simple friendship they have shared. Based on a mutual need, of laughs, and of conversations stretching long into the night.

Peeta combs through her hair, comforting, pointing out shapes in the clouds above. Peeta is far more whimsical than her, seeing beauty in the most ordinary of things. As he draws paintings in the sky with his mind, talking and pointing, she tries to see what he sees, a tree, a frog's head, a one-eared rabbit. She's always lived in a world of black and white, impulsive and practical. Yet Peeta is so different, living in a world constantly changing between every shade of the starkest white to the deepest black. And as she listens, she thinks perhaps she could try, living in a sea of gray alongside him, drifting and swimming as it swirls down, down, down.

After a time, she asks to see what he drew, and after a moment's hesitation, he hesitantly reaches over, his shifting weight causing her body to sway, before he gingerly hands her his sketch pad. The cover feels like silk in her palm as she thumbs through it, quickly locating the last entry.

There's a girl, walking through a meadow. She's bundled up, in her dress, boots, coat, and scarf, hands out, palming the grass as if she's one with this field, as if she's finally found her home. Her eyes are bright, her smile slight as she looks behind her, forever walking away. It takes her a moment to realize it's a picture of her. Though it's not her, for this girl is flawless, beautiful and innocent in this moment – something she surely, is not.

"I ordered the sketchbook in preparation for the tour. I wanted to draw as many decent memories as I could, to look back on," he offers as she flips to the beginning, scanning through the other entries as a comfortable silence falls back upon them.

A fruit tree. A girl playing. Katniss eating cheesecake. Haymitch asleep atop his bar. A field of grain. Bread. A crowd dancing. Dressed in her backless gown. Hands clasped. Two figures talking in a shower, fully clothed. Katniss asleep, hair sprawled in all direction, her expression in peace. A bowl of fruit. Laughter. Katniss and Effie and Katniss.

"They're all beautiful," she offers, returning to the last picture, looking upon the girl's happy face. "But I think you've been to kind, I don't look like that." She argues. She isn't radiant. She doesn't smile like it's the most natural think in the world. She's skinny. Her braid is plain and boring. She scowls too much. She lives a world of black and white.

"I just paint what I see," he gently offers, smiling as he leans, sprawling on his back in the meadow, the sketches forgotten as she palms the cover again, thinking, before laying again beside him.

"We're friends, right?" she asks suddenly, the question bursting from her lips uninvited, her head turning to meet his confused gaze.

"Yes," he replies, smiling slightly. "Good friends."

They lay on their back together, backs soaking, as she reaches over, clasping her hand in his. Good friends. Very good friends.

"Yes, very good friends," she sighs, squeezing his hand in hers.

They feel the breath of the earth as they talk and laugh. It isn't until the water of the earth has soaked through her layers, leaving her trembling that they move. He offers a hand, pulling her up and as he bends down to grab his sketchbook, she cannot help but wonder if they're more than just good friends. It seems like such a trivial title after all they have been through. Together.

And then he pulls her into his chest. His breathes are hers, and hers are his as they stand, wrapped around one another, breathing deeply. "Thank you, for today Katniss, this was lovely," he murmurs into her ear before pulling away with a smile. She reaches up, refastening his scarf securely, trying to understand the confusing array of emotions passing within her.

They stop by the lake to eat before heading back. She's perched atop a moss-covered rock as he wanders along the shoreline, exploring. She tries to imagine what she would do on a day like this without Peeta, her district partner, her very good friend. She imagines herself in bed, shaking with nightmares, drinking like Haymitch, alone.

The thought fills her with loathing, as she swallows her discomfort.

She's a protector. She's strong. And most of all, she's not alone.

She escapes up a tree as Peeta continues to wander, scaling as far above the ground as she can. The limbs are thick and sturdy, the texture of the cool bark familiar on her skin. She's home here, scaling higher and higher, hiding in the depth of the forest.

After a time, she finally looks down, only to see Peeta standing at the foot of her tree, frowning.

"We should probably start heading back, if Effie's gonna keep her head," he hollers, his head craning to meet her eyes. She knows, but her it's safe and secluded. They could run away here. They could stay at this lake forever, hiding in the foliage of the forest, high in the trees, away from Snow, the Capitol, the games.

She sees him huff, scanning the limbs before he hesitantly follows, heaving himself up the first two branches before he begins slowly climbing. The limbs sway too much. Dangerously.

"Push up with your legs!" She hollers downward as he stills, looking up for her guidance. "Don't pull yourself up. Just use your arms to stabilize your body."

And so he does, moving slowly and gingerly, but safely making progress. She still thinks the limbs sway too much, he doesn't know how to properly balance his weight, but he's coming, and it's comforting, watching him come after her. And suddenly he's there, a branch away from her, holding onto one above, his eyes wide, huffing with exertion. She can't help it, smiling at the look he gives her.

"Are you okay?" He asks still huffing. She cannot help but laugh. If anything, she should be asking him that question.

"Yeah, just thinking about the tour," she answers, looking away.

He reaches over, grasping onto her fingers again, their hands ghosting together in the space between them, a link. "We protect each other," he offers. It's such a simple sentiment, but it means so much. It means, I'll be by your side. It means I'm here for you. It means I understand. She's overcome with graditude, squeezing her hand, her throat tightening as if she's going to cry, emotions she doesn't understand passing between them.

"We really need to go back," he offers again, and this time she listens, descending down first as he follows, hesitant.

She's on the ground when he falls, a branch snapping as he flails, grasping onto available branches within reach, slowing his fall until he connects with the moist ground in a heavy thump and groan. She's overcome with panic, sprinting to his side as he sits up, rubbing his soulder. Her panic won't subside, he's okay, alive, yet the small cut on his cheek may as well be the gash on his thigh with the ways in makes her feel, burning a deep fear within her.

She's angry and scared, ripping apart her scarf for a bandage, checking for injury, shaking in the moment. What if it was higher. What if it was worse. What if it was her good leg. She's doing an awful job at protecting him. The tears come suddenly, angry tears that stream down her face, uninvited as leans into him, unable to control the quiet sob that escapes her.

But he just wraps his arm around her, holding her scarf to his check with the other, whispering to her as they sit. And she doesn't even know what she's so angry about anymore, snapping at him as she pulls away, scowling as he wipes the tears from her cheeks. As if he has done anything wrong.

And so when she's calmed, they pick themselves up, refusing to talk about it, and head back to the train. She's so angry, but she reaches for his hand anyway. Slowly calming with every pass of his thumb to the back of her palm. Repetitive. Gentle. This time he leads her, pulling her along as she happily follows, their fingers intertwined. She allows him to set her world back on its axis, returning everything wrong back to normal. His cheek stops bleeding, she tries not to blame herself, he hums.

They hurry back over the fence as discretely as they can, briskly walking to the train. They're going to be late. But as it comes into view, Peeta drops her hand. She misses the warmth immediately, having forgotten about their connection.

She can feel something shifting inside her as Peeta latches the train door behind them with a huff and it terrifies her. She looks at her fingers, still tingling, and scowls.

…

As a resident of western Washington State, I'm always taken aback by the beauty in my backyard. The Hoh Rainforest and protected Old growth are perhaps the most beautiful natural and untouched woody areas in the continental US. It would be a shame for them to be destroyed, even in the dystopian future.

Till next time.


	6. District 6

They've taken to sharing their evenings together, a time which was one spent in solitude; Peeta in his studio, Katniss time alone, thinking. They wander the train, a sprinkle of words and thoughts shared between one another as they walk, pausing to sit, to drink, to remember.

He leads them to his studio as she gazes upon his paintings for the first time. They're splendid, and she hates them. She doesn't want to, yet as she looks upon the paintings, the cornucopia, mutts, her serene face surrounded in a pool of blood, she cannot help but scowl. The blood makes her do a double take. Her fingers twitch. Her forehead grows clammy. He's painted her nightmares, brought everything she is desperate to forget to life, and she hates them.

"What do you think?" he asks from behind, still herding by the door as she wanders closer, her hands ghosting over the dry brush strokes that so artfully and carefully crafted a mutt with those wild silver eyes.

"I hate them," she deadpans, chancing a quick glance before gazing back at the paintings, so many paintings, piled along the wall as she walks along, her hand grazing the images. "I mean, their absolutely magnificent, but I hate them."

He doesn't respond, coming closer as they look. The silence feels thick. She rummages through the piles. Tributes, the parade, death, blood, a sunset. Small moments of hope and beauty surrounded by a sea of death. Flowers, an innocent young face, made pure in death and her grave of flowers. Her throat feels tight, her fingers quiver, she wonders if she said the wrong thing.

"Sorry," she whispers, her eyes unwavering from Rue's burial, taking in every detail.

"No, no it's ok. I hate them too," he pauses, taking in a breath. He comes forward, his hand momentarily grazing the small of his back as he peers at the painting that caught her eye. She shivers. "I paint my nightmares, it helps me feel in control. It feels like I can transform these dirty and malevolent memories into something less vicious through a brush stroke."

"You don't want to forget," she murmurs, remembering his words on their train back home.

She nods to herself, the room filled with silence as she continues searching through his paintings as he gazes upon her. Peeta is truly talented, as she takes in the immense detail, and careful precision. She finds another of her, one of her in bed, hair a mess and she wants to roll her eyes, remembering a very similar picture from his sketchbook, but then she notices the eyes, the darkness, and she cannot help but gasp.

"They're the most terrifying, aren't they? The ones that distort happy memories and turn them into something ugly." He murmurs as they take in her eyes, the paleness, the dark edges. She knows her face, knows that morning. The happiest of mornings, a good night's sleep in District 7, leaving them giddy and happy by sunrise. He'd hovered over her as they shared stories laughing, her expression relaxing. A very real moment.

"I don't think I've ever laughed as much as I did that morning," she admits, gesturing to the painting, refusing to look. It feels almost dirty, tainting this lovely memory they shared together.

"Me neither," he agrees, grabbing it from her, tossing into a corner with a pile of others. The trash. The rejects.

When they leave, she breathes in a sigh of relief as he hesitates by the door, shitting it carefully, deep in thought, distracted.

"Would you like to paint with me sometime? We could make something for Prim," he suggests, stepping away as she leads them away, down the hallway, away from the room of nightmares.

Prim would love it, but Katniss is selfish, and she absolutely would not.

"Absolutely not," she grins, nudging him with her shoulder in a way she hopes is teasing or playful. And he just laughs, tugging lightly on her bread as they head to the end of the train, their normal destination, letting out a light laugh with a smile.

They breath, a clock ticks, the train hums, yet otherwise, silence.

…..

They're sitting in the viewing car. Katniss lounges on the couch, thoughtfully munching on a serving of watermelon, the juices dribbling down her chin uninvited, while she stares out the opposite window, deep in thought. Darkness has fallen, leaving an ominous gloom outside the comfort of the train and their viewing car. Peeta presses his weight against her shins, sitting on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, reading his last book. He lets out little sighs and mumbles here and there, flipping through the pages the longer he reads.

"I'm so bored," he whines, shifting to toss his book beside her on the sofa before leaning back, resting the back of his head upon her knees, his eyes closing.

"Bad book?" She asks, gingerly setting her plate to the side as she reaches down, gently sweeping his bangs back along his hair-line, a comforting motion. Easy.

"The worst," he replies, smiling as she continues her ministrations, relaxing farther into her legs.

She pulls back his bangs, he hums, she sighs. This is nice.

"I don't know what we're gonna do for the rest of the evening," he mentions absently, his face relaxed.

She thinks this wouldn't be so bad. Sitting in the viewing car with Peeta. Pulling his stubborn bangs from his eyes. Watching the moon move across the sky. Eating exotic fruit. Breathing the late air.

"Me neither," she murmurs, a lie.

They shift. He joins her on the couch as she shares her watermelon, watching his face morph as he savors the sweetness, eagerly grabbing for more. He sets his book on an end table, grasping her calves, pulling her feet onto his lap before she can react, much less argue.

And then she is resting, falling deeper into the softness of the sofa of which they lounge while he's across from her, removing her sandals, rubbing the anxiety and stress she didn't even know she was carrying, the weight, the burden, from her tired muscles. Her calves, her ankles, the soles of her feet.

"I used to do this to my dad," she offers, falling silent in contemplation. The wind sings outside the windows. It's a stormy night, countering the warmth and peace that exists within the confines of the train. It almost feels like a home. Protection. Warmth. Love.

"Oh?" He asks, as if unfazed. He runs his fingers along her sore arch, and she closes her eyes, trying to swallow the loud moan she wants to release.

"He was the biggest drama king. He would come home singing and mother would meet him at the door. And then, after he'd kissed baby Prim, he'd look at me, sit down on a chair, and moan about how bad his feet hurt. "

Peeta laughs, interrupting the story as he smiles, his eyes singing, shining in mirth. "Let me guess. You scrambled at the opportunity to take care of your Pop?"

"Naturally," she grins, her eyes fogging over as she recollects. "I remember I'd throw myself at his feet, unlacing the boots, tearing off his socks and he'd whine and wiggle his toes, dramatically whining until I happily began rubbing them. And afterwards," she sighs, breaking eye contact, her gaze falling upon the far wall, counting the petals in a painting depicting a field of wildflowers. She swallows. He waits. "He'd always take me in his lap, thanking me for taking such good care of his poor feet, while my mom would snicker. And then we'd sing together."

They're bathed in a darkened silence. Peeta's movements still, his hands frozen along the soles of her feet as he gazes upon her in an expression she cannot even begin to dissect. She breaks eye contact, burrowing further into the sofa to stare at the celling, counting the lines and planes in the molding, trying to ignore the way her confession makes her heart beat, her eyes sting, her throat constrict.

"I miss him," she finally manages, and she's shocked with how lonely and pathetic her voice sounds.

"I know," he finally responds. And when she finally catches his eyes again, steeling herself, she's shocked that she cannot identify pity in his eyes. But rather he understands, he knows her.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," he continues after a moment, his ministrations on her feet slowing into a soft lull, caressing more than massaging, as his eyes glaze over, distracted, staring at the opposite wall in another world entirely. She tries to imagine what he sees, the memories that come to mind when she talks about her father, the voices that fill his head.

She thinks he'll say something, fill the silence by talking about his own father, reminisce on Ashter Everdeen's singing voice she knows he can still remember so clearly, voice to her that he understands, as she knows he does. Yet he doesn't, allowing the silence to ruminate as he relaxes farther into the couch, his fingers ghosting along her toes. It tickles. She trembles. He sighs.

They shift. He pulls up a footstool to prop up his legs, she crawls forward, sitting beside him, pulling her side flush to his, before swinging her legs over his, curling into his side, her head resting comfortably into the crook of his neck. His arm rests on the back of the couch, comforting, his head tips to the side, trapping her own in its position. And she feels safe. So warm and safe and secure.

"I'm so glad we're friends." He whispers into the silence, squeezing her shoulder momentarily before his arm moves back against the couch, to its home.

"Me too," she swallows, uncomfortably. She knows friends, not even good friends do this. They don't sleep together. They don't cuddle for warmth. They don't hold hands. And they certainly don't sit as close as she is sitting to Peeta, nearly on his lap. But most of all, they definitely don't wonder what it would be like to kiss without the cameras on.

Nope. She's not ready to think about that. They're just very close, very good friends. Very very good friends. The closest of friends.

"Will you read your book aloud?" She asks suddenly curling her legs underneath her as Peeta adjusts, craning to look down at her form.

"Are you sure?" He asks, confused, "it's seriously dreadful."

"Surely it can't be that bad."

So, he sighs in defeat, muttering something about it being "her funeral," leaning over, his weight shifting on the sofa to grab his book. Its worn and ratty, the cover torn, yet it's a book, and they don't see many of them in 12.

Yet he wasn't exaggerating, for it is perpetually dreadful. Her eyes glaze over as he recites the story, written in a strange intonation they do not understand. She thinks it's a story about love, yet the language is so confusing, so dull, she can't keep the plot straight. Her eyes glaze over, her attention wanes, she lets out a yawn.

He keeps reading, his voice calms, he settles down deeper into the sofa, his cheek coming to rest once more on her head. She closes her eyes, chasing his calm voice, an arm coming to wrap around his torso. Secure. She feels light, so light. She's running on clouds, weightless, and she never ever wants to leave.

She's vaguely aware of someone picking her up, away from her cloud. And she doesn't understand where's she's going and why she can't stay on her fluffy cloud where everything makes sense. Yet there's a soft pressure on her forehead before she feels herself placed on another cloud, a softer one, cool, silky, as the feeling envelops her in warmth.

And she thinks this is even better before the darkness hits.

…..

She's a light sleeper, jumping awake at the slightest of sounds, a side effect of the time spent in the arena, she assumes. Thus, being so, it's no surprise that she startles awake at the light clicking of a closing door, tangled in her sheets, breathe catching.

The room is bathed in darkness, silence as she groggily opens her eyes, the movement feeling forced, unnatural. Blinking sleepily, she locates a dark shadow approaching the bed. The bed dips with his weight, she catches his smell, he leans over, hovering above her blinking eyes as she tries to make sense of this black shadow, in her room, that seems so familiar.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he whispers, pulling off his shirt before crawling under the covers with her. She blinks. Peeta. Rolling over, yawning, she buries her face in his chest, suffocating in the warm air as she throws an arm over his torso, her warm feet dancing with his cold one.

She shivers at the sensation, burrowing deeper into his chest, the air growing feverish.

He wraps his arms around her, palm spread out, comfortably pressing on the bare of her hip as she pulls away, face burning, desperate for air. They share a pillow, noses nearly touching, glancing at one another across the dark divide. His fingers ghost along her hip, she yawns.

"You were painting again," she states, matter of face, leaving no room for argument. The words feel robotic on her tongue, as if she is unfamiliar with speech. It leaves her unsure how she is supposed to be feeling. She tries to look at his eyes in the dark, her foggy brain buzzing and dipping as she struggles to make out the shadow before her.

"Sometimes I get lost in my painting studio," he murmurs, falling deeper into the pillow as he settles in, his breathes calming, ghosting the planes of her face. Simple.

She glances at the clock against the far wall, three in the morning, they must be up getting prepped by 6:30. Very lost.

"You need to sleep," she yawns, feeling drugged and groggy as he pulls her closer, their combined heat tantalizing as her eyes tingle. His breathes even as she finds herself matching them, struggling against the line sharply pulling her away from the land of the awake.

"You do too," he whispers, readjusting.

She tries to stay awake. She won't fall asleep again, not without him. She can't sleep, she won't, while her district partner stays awake, making himself sick. But she's fighting a losing battle, jolting awake as her body fights against her desires, falling and falling, closer to the chasm.

She wants to ask why it's gotten so bad, what he keeps spending so much time painting, how she can help him sleep.

But instead she drifts, only aware of bread and a comforting warmth, stroking her hip with a practiced touch

…...

"This is ridiculous!" She groans, leaning back in her chair as Flavius brushes her hair, tossing her cards to Peeta where he sits across from her.

He grins as his prep team moves away, allowing him to reach for the cards. He nearly spits out the roll he's been slowly chewing as his eyes ghost the words, bursting out in laughter, the sound filling every crook and cranny of the space.

She scowls in his direction, crossing her arms, not in the mood for his laughter. So of course, he tries, wiping the smile off his face. The corners of his lips tremble in effort, his eyes sing as they make eye contact. His blue eyes shine, her gray ones' storm right back.

"You just need to practice until it's so instinctive, it doesn't feel ridiculous anymore," he suggests, handing the cards back to her. Their fingers touch, her skin feels alive.

She looks at her cards, frowning, trying to imagine a world in which Effie's words will sound anything other than utterly ridiculous. She tries to imagine Effie writing their speeches, pen in air, her accent filling the room with a flourish only she can offer.

Peeta pauses, unsure what to say when Haymitch barges into the room, loud as always, with Portia and Cinna following close behind.

"Oh dear, they weren't exaggerating," Portia sighs, kneeling before Peeta. Katniss can see how he immediately calms in her presence, a small smile lifting his face as she takes his pale face in her palms, studying him. She sees it all, they all can, and there's no hiding it. The dark circles under his eyes, the baggy, sleepy skin, the gray complexion, the sweat. He's sick, he's struggling, he's hurting. And they must hide it, all of it. From the cameras, from District 6, from Snow.

Especially from Snow.

"Venia could you be a sweetheart dear and hand me my satchel?" She asks as Venia immediately responds, jumping up from her seat as she scurries from the room, returning less than a minute later, handing Portia her bag with a quiet smile.

"Thank you darling," she smiles, dismissing Venia with a nod as she scrambles back to Katniss, grabbing bottles and sprays as they continue molding her hair into something deemed passable.

She watches Peeta until he catches her gaze, locking eyes with one another. Their prep teams flutter about as Portia mixes a concoction of creams and medicines in a small bowl, as Haymitch talks, as Effie runs about in a panic, yet it all seems to slip away, her gaze centering on his. He's sweating, a light sheen sparkling on his forehead. His eyes droop, his shoulders sag, he's so tired – as is she. Yet all the same, she doesn't think she's ever understood someone as much as she understands the tired boy smiling slightly at her with dreary eyes.

Portia's instructing Peeta's prep team as she begins rubbing her concoction into his skin, focusing under the eyes as Cinna approaches Katniss, patting her on her palm as her own prep team dutifully steps aside.

Peeta sighs, his eyes closing, his posture relaxing as Portia whispers words she cannot decipher across the space that separates them, the air tingling.

"How are you feeling today Katniss?" he asks crouching down before her on the floor to get a good look at her face. Studying her eyes, grabbing her chin gently to analyze her complexion. Though she knows he won't find much. She's so tired, sure, but she's slowly learning to sleep again, with Peeta beside her, chasing the demons away.

Peeta makes everything better. Good and kind. It makes her feel hopeless, selfishly chasing the comfort he provides yet offering nothing in return as his prep team works across the room, slathering product everywhere in an attempt to cover the flaws his exhaustion has left behind, uncured.

"Sleeping fine," she replies. Curt. To the point.

"No," he pauses, removing his hands from her face as he reaches into his own satchel, procuring a piercing headpiece that he gingerly places in her hair, pulling her front layers from her eyes as hands continue molding her hair from behind. "How are _you_ feeling?"

She pauses, understanding. How is she feeling? She's tired, both physically and emotionally. She's hungry. Her back hurts. Her throat feels tight – and she can't decipher whether she's suffocating or whether she's going to cry. She wants to go home. Home.

"I'm so tired," she answers

He smiles, a sad smile, rubbing the stress out of her hands as Octavia finished behind her, taking a step back to admire her handiwork.

"Halfway through. Don't forget I'm still betting on you, girl on fire."

Cinna moves away, bodies crowding Peeta as they continue working on his face, creating complexion, color, definition as he sits, silently and patiently. Cinna and Portia whisper together, as if conspiring, as the prep teams both work together, debating the correct creams, the most efficient shade, and best contour.

He meets her eye from across the room where she sits, finished before him, toying with her speech, and she can see through his smile, how sick of this he is too.

How refreshing it is, to have someone who understands her so well.

She moves away, feeling crowded in the room with so many faces mulling about, fretting, making noise.

She finds herself sitting alone in the dining car, surrounded by Effie's notes depicting her meticulous planning, their agenda, her planner, as her thumbs ghost along the speech their escort had handed to her that morning. She eyes the words, attempting to engrain them into her soul as she resists the urge to snort.

She doesn't have anything to say to this District, she doesn't owe them anything. Yet all the same, she feels like they still deserve something more than this. Something that isn't made to be so artificial. Victors that don't need to be covered in layers of makeup to appear living. Speeches that mention and honor their dead children. Something real.

Haymitch comes into the room and she spots him sauntering towards her out of the corner of her eye, as she traces her speech with her gaze, hunched over, lips tight. He sits across from her, chair scraping, groaning loudly, his body thumping loudly.

"Try not to lead the boy on sweetheart. We don't need any broken hearts to contend to," Haymitch says, his tone mocking as he slouches in his chair. She frowns as he sets his flask on the table before him, her eyes falling to his knuckles, dirty and raw.

"I've done no such thing," she argues, her brow furrowing in confusion. Broken hearts? Romance. Feelings. They've just been friends. Is Peeta falling in love with her again? An uncomfortable unwelcome feeling settles in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't want feelings. She doesn't want love. She just wants their evenings, their stories, their friendship.

"Cut the crap girl on fire," Haymitch drawls, rolling his eyes at her innocent obliviousness. Her head tilts as he snatches his flask back, toying with it in two cracked palms. "We can all see you eyeing the boy like a piece of meat. Don't toy with his feelings like that."

"I-I'm not…. I'm not doing anything you ass!" she growls, her mind reeling. Like a piece of meat. Ok sure, she's been noticing things about him lately, appreciating from a distance, but she doesn't want anything more, and she knows she's never given an inkling that she may want anything more from their arrangement. "I think you're seeing things old man, Peeta and I are just friends," she finishes, her throat tight.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night sweetheart," Haymitch grins, tipping his head back for a drink, his eyes crinkling slightly in the corners.

He's infuriating.

"It's true!" she argues, leaning forward in her seat, as if to prove her point.

"Ok Katniss," he agrees, smirking at the tense look she gives him. Scowling, she turns away, facing her cards, and he tries not to laugh, a tease straining the corners of his mouth. She's so clueless.

They sit in a thick and uncomfortable silence. Haymitch drinks, Katniss scowls. She can hear the noises in the other room in which Peeta's prepping continues. A light laugh, conversation, an occasional squeal. Happy.

"He isn't sleeping anymore," she admits in a whisper, her gaze scanning her trembling fingers, intertwining as she picks at her nails. Nervous. "He's always painting or reading or running. I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she finishes, her voice catching. She feels so hopeless and pathetic, confiding in her mentor. She swallows, her fingers writing, her gaze falling to the creases in the oak table.

"What you're going to do is be on your game. Peeta's a loose cannon right now, and we can't rely on him to make you desirable. Stick to the speeches. Become the capitol darling Snow needs you to be."

"I don't want to be a capitol darling," she growls, her brows furrowing, her lips snarling, her voice raising. Frantically.

Yet he just laughs, his neck craning back, his eyes smiling.

"Sweetheart," he pauses, turning to take a drink out of his flask, wincing slightly. "You lost any semblance of control over yourself the moment your sisters name was called. You and the boy, your lives belong to them now."

Victors. The star-crossed lovers act. The publicity. Mentoring and future games. She understands. She'll never escape. They'll never escape – this train, the act, the capitol. They'll never live the simple peaceful life she always wanted for herself. They'll never be free.

"I have no choice but to live happily ever after with Peeta," she states, staring at the table, her fingers twisting and scratching.

He raises his flask in a toast, grinning. "It could be a lot worse sweetheart. _You_ could do a lot worse. Be grateful for that."

"I know," she scowls, her lips snarling as Haymitch grins, laughing before taking another swig. At this rate, he'll be drunk by the time they make it on stage. She can't understand. She's supposed to be happy that her hand is forced, that her life is a lie, fake, for the cameras? She can't imagine ever being happy, with this utter loss of control and choice.

Peeta will always be something forced upon her. Their lives will never be authentic, for even that has been stripped from her. She will never be permitted to make her own choices to live her own life. She's drowning.

"Try to be happy about it girl on fire. You might just find being with the boy isn't all that bad."

He stumbles away, and she's left, mulling. She allows herself to imagine what her life could have been like had it not been for the games, had she been allowed to choose and control her own destiny. Prim would've married and had too many children with someone kind and hardworking, like Rory Hawthorne. And Katniss would have stood to the side, never understanding, yet content with her sisters' happiness. She would have hunted. And maybe she would have lived alone, watching everyone around her send their children off to slaughter. Maybe one day she would have wanted someone – someone fierce like Gale, or someone kind like Peeta, or someone else altogether.

Maybe.

But in this life, she can't because that choice is taken from her. And it feels like an undue punishment, tainting her relationship with Peeta and turning it into something that is fake. Something to be capitalized upon

She dares to imagine an organic future with Peeta, one that is not tainted by the capitol. She decides, yes, one day he would've bucked up the courage to ask her out, or give her flowers, or say hello. And she would've hated his gestures and hated him. But Prim would've been smitten, and they'd have become fast friends. And maybe, had they been given the choice, with time, perhaps she would've grown to love his gestures and flowers and questions and friendship. And maybe one day, she would let him kiss her in the meadow. And, he would have been hers. Everything would have been of their own choice, of their own wishes.

Maybe in another life.

But that is not her life, and there is no point in this, imaging a life she will never live.

Yet she hears his laugh in the other room and her heart lightens, for she can't find it in herself to be that despondent regarding their fate. For Haymitch is right, she can do so much worse than Peeta. If her life and story belong to the capitol, if her only choice is to be a capitol puppet, she knows it will be so much more tolerable with him by her side, day after day.

She could live a hundred thousand lifetimes and never deserve him. But maybe in this lifetime, she can try.

…..

Her speech is memorized, engrained into every pore of her being when Peeta emerges. He looks upon her shyly, scratching the back of his palm and her breathe catches.

He's radiant.

"Are you ready for this?" he asks as she moves towards him. He palms his own speech nervously, slipping it in his pocket before grasping it with both hands again, as if he's not quite sure what to do. A nervous habit.

"No, never," she responds, coming to stand by him. She reaches up, readjusting his scarf how she knows he likes it. Loose, off his neck, unfashionable.

Effie and Haymitch enter, ready to escort them away. He grimaces, she swallows.

Standing in front of the door, Haymitch loudly breathing beside her, her voice caught in her throat, this time, she is the one to reach over, entwining her fingers with his, her thumb stroking the back of his palm in comforting motions. She can feel his gaze upon her, questioning, as she swallows, tense.

The doors open, the lights blind her for a moment before Effie pushes them forward into the crisp air. Her face morphs into that fake smile, her eyes lifting. She's playing her part, the capitol darling, Haymitch's words ringing in her ears. And when Peeta pulls her in for a sweet kiss on stage, the cameras flashing, she hates how forced it feels.

Welcome to District 6.

…

 _This was a fun chapter to write and I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think! I had originally pre-written a vastly different chapter, yet when I read through my first draft, it felt so over the top cheesy I had to slash it. I might fix up the original draft and turn the scene into an outtake if I get around to it._

 _Till next time:)_


	7. District 5

_Authors Note:_

 _This chapter deals with subjects surrounding child abuse. Nothing graphic, I promise. Should you need to skip this chapter due the themes I have inserted, no worries, for though it sets the next chapter up well I think, it's not a necessary read._

…

District 5 is gray. She scans the crowd, looking for signs of life, yet only finds emotionless faces staring back. The stage is surrounded by gray concrete buildings, gray gravel, gray people.

She feels ridiculous again. They stand out. Color against gray. Hope against silence. Rebellion against resignation.

She glances at the podiums. Foxface's – no, Juniper's mother, stoic and firm, chin stubbornly jutted out, her face frozen in indifference. And Venius, the boy that didn't make it long enough to step off his plate, who couldn't make the countdown, his family sobs openly. And she can't help but tilt her head in contemplation, taking in a scene of emotion, of human emotion, while surrounded by a sea of gray.

She glances at her cards, her voice clear in the microphones, now steady with practice, as she carefully recites Effie's words. In another district they may have brought tears and melancholy. But here, she finds no reaction as the crowd stares at her, as if confused by her presence, like a mirage.

Haymitch did mention that this is a strange district, off by any characterization of the word. That they're peculiar views on death and redemption make them a bit of an oddball as far as the outer districts are concerned.

Whatever that means.

She finishes, her voice crisp. Silence. She can hear the flapping of the breeze. She watches a Peacekeeper shift his weight from foot to foot, the only movement from down below as the district stares, unmoving. The crying woman stops sobbing, her chin jutted as she gazes into her eyes. It makes her uncomfortable, this quiet stare down, in unison. It's like they expect something from her. Like she's letting them down.

But she remembers Peeta and his sweaty sleepless face this morning. Their loose cannon. The boy that still needs to make his speech.

The sooner it's over, the sooner she can put him back to bed.

She lowers her cards. Swallowing a lump in her throat, lips parted, she averts her eyes, stepping aside, eyes on the stage. She feels as if she's turning her back on these gray people as Peeta steps forward with his uneven tread, pounding in front of the microphone once again. She counts the grains in the stage floor, traceing the lines with her mind.

Peeta takes in a breath, she holds hers. Silence.

She offers a stiff smile, her gaze scanning the crowd again They're sullen, quiet, simple people. It reminds her of home, the odd district, reusing to applause, giving silent salutes of respect. She thinks they have a lot in common with these residents, their struggles, their suffering. Their gaze turns to her district partner, together, silent, and she finds it so unnerving, so odd.

He takes in another breathe, pausing, and tries again. Stalling. She looks over at him in worry and easily pinpoints the carefully hidden fear in his eyes. His eyes pierce the female tributes picture, his adams apple bobbing, and she longs to drag him away, pull his face between her palms, touch her forehead upon his and breathe.

But she can't. And she wants to scream.

His only real kill was the girl from 8, and though it was only a technicality, she knows Juniper's fate weighs heavily on him.

His hands are shaking, Peeta's spent the past couple nights painting, refusing to be consoled. His prep team has since resorted to make up, caking his face with colors, faking the complexion he no longer has. To the cameras, the capitol, Snow, it's quite a deceitful trick. But she can see right through it. He trembles. His neck is sweating in the freezing air. A cold sweat.

"Katniss and I, we didn't know your tributes in the arena. Venius left us quickly and easily in those first moments before the games had begun. He made a choice, and though we will never know what passed through his mind in those final moments as we stood before each other, all twenty-four of us, waiting for the games to begin, in that moment he chose his destiny, and I will always respect him for that.

"We didn't know Juniper either, although I'm sure we can all remember Katniss's nickname for her," he pauses, smiling as the crowd rumbles with giggles, pausing in reminisce of Foxface. She feels nothing but shame, looking at her shoes, unable to understand how her inability to remember the name of a girl before she died could ever be construed as a happy memory.

"But I do know that she was the wisest of us all, truly clever in every aspect of her games. In the training center, she was an expert with plants and first aid. She knew how to stay alive, and she could have outlasted us all, I think. And so, in the end, it's strange, that a girl who could identify thousands of plants in the blink of an eye went out with nightlock. Perhaps too strange. And once again, I don't know what went through her mind in those final moments, but for Juniper, I believe she also made a choice."

He pauses, and she swears the audience leans forward. She can feel the wave so carefully crashing to the surface with the ease of his words. She wants to pull him from the stage. Implying both tributes planned their own death, with Snow watching their backs? But she's frozen in time, witnessing in horror, as his silver tongue molds the words of rebellion silently whispered in the dark of night.

"I read that there's a saying in your district that goes, 'choose your own death,' that I think resonates deeply with the sacrifice of your tributes. To live is to be powerless. We are subject to a vast array of challenges and successes throughout our lifetime – successes that we treasure, and challenges we dread. And in the end, our lives are never ours to live if we cannot also choose, what we do, where we live, how we survive. But to die one's own death is to be powerful. It is to say, I will regain control of my life in these special final moments. It is to choose one's destiny. It is to be at peace. It is to really live. I don't know what went through your tributes minds. But I do know that they chose their destiny's, how, where, and when they were ready to regain that power. That at the end, they were strong of mind and heart And I can respect that. Thank you for your tributes, and know that such a sacrifice will never be made in vain."

As Peeta finishes, silence falls. Katniss is terrified, her eyes bugging out, frozen in her spot. She looks at Peeta as he scans the crowd, solemn.

But then it happens, thousands of hands rise in unison. The gesture is unfamiliar, a closed fist with raised pinky finger, but she can see that it is a sign of respect. Junipers mother follows the motion from her podium, smiling through her tears. She takes in the stony, fierce gaze of several young men in the crowd, a gaze that she can see so clearly in Gale, anger, hope, and it becomes so apparent what a dangerous think Peeta just did.

Peacekeepers cock their guns. The crowd is still, their arms raises, their faces solemn as Katniss and Peeta slowly back away from the microphone. The crowd lowers their offering as they turn. Before she walks through the doors behind Peeta, Katniss looks again to the crying woman on the podium. The crowd is beginning to disperse, yet still she stands, her face wet with tears, her hand extended.

What a dangerous game they're playing.

…

The doors have barely closed behind them, securing Katniss and Peeta in the quiet justice building, void and empty, that she erupts. The mask comes off, her smile evaporates, and she turns to him, her stomach churning, panic erupting from that tense, tight place in the back of her throat.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she cries, enraged, her voice louder than she intends as the eruption of emotion leaves her in a huff, suffocating and overbearing. Her palms fist his shirt tightly, knuckles white, crinkles visible, and pushes him, them, with a force that surprises her into the concrete wall

He lets out a huff, his breath stolen, his eyes closed, clenched slightly in the corners. She can't feel her fingers. She sees red, and pain, and suffering. She sees the bakery burned, unforeseen accidents, pain, red, loss.

Everything is quiet. Peaceful, almost.

She hears nothing but their heaving breathes, chests rising and falling rapidly, without pause. The room fills with the sounds of panic.

He pries her from his shirt, gently, like coaxing a terrified animal. Her fingers fall to her sides, tingling, her head fall forward, leaning, her gaze elsewhere. She spots a single rose perched in a vase atop the receptions desk, a stark contrast the gray, and she could puke. His hands rise, gently, across her clothed hip, along her ribs, settling there. He catches her as she falls, the fight leaving, breathless, her forehead coming to rest against his chest, her numb fingers limp at her sides, his shirt crinkled.

It shocks her when it hits her. How desperately she wants to cry.

"What were you thinking? She asks again, her voice clouded with tears. He pulls her closer, letting out a shaky breath as she blinks, swallowing the lump in her throat, the panic giving way to hopelessness.

"I'm so sorry." He replies instead, and she can taste the sorrow on his lips.

She allows herself to find comfort in this embrace. Stolen. Wrapping her arms around him tightly, they sway, leaning against the walls. His breath gentle against her cheek, she feels him, all of him, and wills herself to find steadiness in this moment.

They're alive. Their families are alive. Prim. Gale. The Mellarks. But for how long?

"We can fix this," she whispers, her voice muffled. "It'll be okay."

Even she can sense the lack of conviction on her tongue.

He pulls away and swallows, his adams apple bobbing with nervous energy. His mouth opens and closes, like a fish, the words frozen on his tongue when the door slams, sending reverberating vibrations from floor to ceiling in the concrete building as Katniss jumps, ears ringing.

"What the hell was that!" Haymitch bellows, staggering through the opened doors with Effie following close behind, her familiar walk clicking, echoing in the chamber-like room.

She moves to stand beside him, coming to face their bellowing mentor. His eyes are wild, crazed, panicked as he charges forward, tie crooked, steps pounding.

Peeta swallows. "We can fix it," she says, like an offering. "We can make them forget."

"Stay outa this princess," he scowls, sending her a look that has her fiery in seconds. Fighting fire with fire. She burns hot.

"Like hell I will,"

Haymitch shakes his head, frowning, pulling Peeta aside so that he stands between Katniss and her district partner, as if he can force her out of their dilemma.

"You gotta shape up boy! I don't care what you and sweetheart do on your own time, and frankly I don't wanna know. But out there, your madly, stupid in love."

"You don't think I know that? If there's one thing I've had plenty of practice with, it's playing roles." He responds, calm, resigned. Perhaps the most level-headed of them all, despite their circumstances.

Haymitch lets out a strange sound, something between laugh and groan. Sarcastic. Angry.

"Maybe sweetheart outa give you some acting lessons."

A gasp. Silence.

"Haymitch Abernathy, your being terribly rude," Effie chortles, chastising as she pushes herself between the men, leveling Haymitch's storming eyes before he backs away, obediently at her command.

She could laugh. Eccentric as their lovely escort is, she has their sourly mentor on a hook. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the stylists entering the room as Haymitch takes another step back, smirking, head bent to the ground, offering the floor, his permission.

"Come on dear, I have just the thing for you," the eccentric woman murmurs, wrapping an arm around Peeta's strong shoulders, pulling him swiftly away, her heels clicking. Hand slipping away from hers, he looks over his shoulder, eyes wide. She still feels his breath on her neck, stomach churning with nausea. She forces a smile, eyes twitching, as the heels grow faint.

They stand in the quiet hall then, mentor and victor, young and old.

What are they going to do now?

…

"You have got to be kidding me!"

"You got any better ideas sweetheart? Look. That footage was broadcast, live in the capitol. You bet your bottom dollar Snow saw Peeta's speech and you've gotta do some damage control before we reach the capitol." Haymitch argues, pouring himself a drink.

They're in the bar car, arguing quietly. Haymitch drinks. Katniss Paces.

Everything's quiet. She's worried about Peeta.

"Look, I know this is bad. But we – I'm not – it's not real!"

"Since when did anything have to be real," he argues, turning around to face her once more, her pacing faster, loud, feet thumping, noisy like Peeta. "We just need something to distract the reporters. Photos that will have everyone in the capitol analyzing your relationship for the next several weeks."

She swallows, a scowl resting deep in the planes of her lips.

"We don't do anything thing at night," she swallows, her pacing halting. "Just sleep."

Haymitch sighs, leading them to the dining table. "I never said it needed to be real. It's a television show sweetheart. A simple picture will keep them talking."

"What do you want me to do, go out to get coffee with morning hair? In case you haven't realized, we're all living on this train. I can't exactly give you this 'walk of shame'," she says, cringing at the words. She can't believe she's considering it. Makes her feel cheap. Used.

"That's exactly what I want."

She groans.

"Can't we just have some more outings or a photo shoot or something?"

"We can," he pauses, drinking again, his throat bobs. "But you wanna protect that boy, the people he loves, you need to make everyone forget he ever opened his mouth."

She nods.

"But the first thing we gotta do, is get Peeta some sleep," he continues, peering at Katniss.

"I'll take care of it."

…..

She loves showers. She loves the warmth, the mist fogging the glass, the droplets cascading down her body, slowly cooling before flopping down all together, swirling in a dance down the drain. She leans up, allowing the water to cleanse her face, holding her breathe, relaxing her body. She tries to remind herself that this day will end, that she can fix tomorrow. But instead she scowls, curling farther into the stream.

She changes the setting, heavy, like a waterfall. She tries to imagine she is at one, bathing in a water hole in the middle of the woods, warm, summertime, with birds chirping and marmots squealing. She'll stand under the waterfall, the weight pounding her skull as she struggles to stay upright. Pine in her nostrils, ponding water in her ears, she'll still manage to sense the boy as he approaches her, wet and warm like her. Smelling of bread and dill, he'll stand beside her, hand on her hip, before she opens her eyes.

And so, when she does, she scowls, remembering where she is. She takes in the gray panels of her shower, traces the grout lines with her mind as the water continues pounding. This isn't a peaceful waterfall. She's alone. She's a pawn.

She curls in the corner, tracing the flooring with the tips of her fingers, deep in thought as the water pounds her back. Water drips into her eyes, down her nose, across the planes of her body. Tomorrow is a new day. She can play it up. Yes. She'll fall all over him during the gala, make sure the cameras catch them sneaking away. He can give her an easily visible love bite for all to see. She'll give Haymitch his "walk of shame". They can make up for this transgression. They can make people forget the rumbling that Peeta's words so carelessly resonated.

It isn't until the water has run cold, sending a chill down her bones that she rises, foregoing the drying pad, leaving her hair heavy and dripping. Maybe it'll looks like she's spent a wild night between the sheets.

Hair dripping loose down the planes of her back, her nightshirt sticking to her cold body, she shuts off the light, the hums of the train vibrating beneath her bare feet as she wanders to her bed, yawning. She wonders how Peeta will sleep tonight, _if_ he sleeps tonight.

But of course, she need not worry, for he is there, as she should have expected, regardless of the events of this awful day. Yet she is, shocked for that matter, taking in his form as he leans over, dawning his sweatpants and nothing else, steadily detaching his prosthesis. She loves the way the moonlight casts its shadows across the muscles of his back, as she takes in a breath, unsteady.

"you came," she whispers dumbly to the silent room. He places his leg to the side of the bed, looking up at her. Though the room is merely illuminated by the dull gaze of the moonlight she can still see the paint, dark, dusting his hands, his stomach, even his check. His eyes so dull, she longs to soothe his tired soul.

"I'm so tired," he admits instead, his gaze piercing, his blue eyes perhaps even more fragrant in the moonlight.

She doesn't know what to say. They don't want to talk about this day, and she only wants to make it to the next. She knows they ought to talk about it, what today meant, how they'll play the act tomorrow, how to make the capitol talk. But she's selfish – she doesn't want them allowed, here, in their room while he's looking at her eyes so defeated she could crawl inside them.

"Do you wanna shower?" she asks, coming to sit on her side of the bed, her fingers numbing braiding her hair, before freezing, remembering. Her shoulder brushes his as she gazes upon the moonlight. Constant.

A pause. Silence.

"I think, maybe I will," he finally responds, reaching to reattach his prosthesis. She leaps up, setting towels aside, folded and waiting on the toilet seat as he stands silently, waiting. The stark lighting of the bathroom making him appear almost translucent.

"It might run cold," she admits, twirling her fingers. Awkward, unsure. "I took a really long shower."

"That's fine," he says softly, reaching out to calm her hands, their fingers intertwining. Her gaze falls to the veins and ridges on his baker's hands. The scattered burns that he earned in the time since their games. A map detailing his life.

She strokes an old bruise with the tip of her thumb, gentle before dropping his hands, halting at the doorway momentarily, half turning around, his gaze penetrating.

"I'll be here waiting when you're done," she whispers into the silence.

"You're such a good friend," he replies, smiling.

She shuts the door behind her, offering him the privacy he needs. Leaning against the solid oak, she can just vaguely make out the movement from within as he readies for his shower.

Her fingers graze her lips. Friends.

The word feels wrong coming from his lips.

She frowns, heading to her bed, curling into her side, wet hair splayed in every which direction. There is no understanding the confusing array of emotions that plague her, the word swirling around in her mind's eye. She turns, breathing in the scent clinging to his pillow, swallowing the disappointment she feels.

Everything's foggy when a hot body rolls into bed beside her. Neatly pulling her hair out of the way, she sighs as a warm palm wraps around her waist, pulling her flush to the length of him. She feels every ridge, every hardness as she leans her head back, dipping further into the comforting warmth, his cheek finding her own. Fingers intertwined, he pulls her tight.

She sighs, he let out a huff. Breaths tickle her spine, fingers mold together, teasing. A snore. Lips innocently touching an unmissed spot on her neck. Warmth. Hunger.

Home.

….

She jolts away, a forgotten nightmare fresh on her lips, terror stuck in the depths of her throat. She bites her scream down, fingers grasping hold of the sheet as she desperately tries to station herself to this plane, to remind herself of what's real.

Hands darting, fingers clenching, she darts up, her mind spinning, dizzy, when she fails to grasp hold onto what she seeks. She turns, patting the bed, as if he shall suddenly manifest in her fuzzy ambivalence.

A stone settles in the pit of her stomach. Weighted. Heavy.

Peeta's gone.

The events of the day slowly come tumbling back, the fog clearing from her tired eyes. The disastrous speeches, the planning, his absence, the hopelessness, the panic. A thick and uncomfortable feeling begins to lodge itself deep within her throat.

She swallows, hard, her bare feet scrambling to find purchase upon the cold oak flooring of her room. She stumbles, blinking with her tired eyes.

She wants to punch herself – she never should have fallen asleep without him. Not after today.

She wipes the sleep from her eyes, vision foggy as she stumbles out into the hallway on unsteady feet. She vaguely recognizes the slight click of her door as it shuts behind her. Heart beating, her bare feet tremble, pressed into the cold hard floor below.

Silently, she runs, uncaring of her sleeping companions. The kitchens, the dining car, the exercise car all prove fruitless. She closes her eyes, dread rising as she leans her weight back against the wall, breathing heavily. Swallowing down her emotions, she opens her eyes.

She knows where he is.

He's there, smack dab in the middle of the room when she enters, paint shrew about, her toes wiggling in something slippery and wet. The rooms so like the last time they were here, paintings covering every inch, pain and love and hope. Yet when she sees it, what's different, she can't help but gasp.

He's stationed in the center of the room, on his knees, eyes down, shoulders hunched. Like he's being punished. Like he's in pain. Like he's small and worthless and powerless. He trembles.

Above him, lording over the room is a painting, still wet with those recent and careful brushstrokes, and even Katniss cannot deny the sadness that the work conveys.

She creeps forward, eyeing the painting, as she tries to understand.

There's a boy, a child, with those unforgettable blue eyes. Yet the fear and hopelessness that fills his shimmering eyes cannot be denied. He's a face of innocence, fair and fine, yet below those tortured eyes rests an ugly bruise, large, red, angry. There's no denying the boy she looks upon, for it is those same blue eyes that so often plague her nightmares.

And then, it clicks, the force of it all bringing her to her knees, wet with paint, with a soft cry. For within the boys' eyes, those wet weeping eyes, reflects another figure, a shadow, tall and foreboding. A woman. And it is so plain to see who it is.

She crawls forward, frantically, longing to touch his warm skin, her torso grazing his bare back. Covered in paint. He lets out a shaky breath, trembling as she draws closer, wrapping her arms around him, her face burying itself within the crook of his neck. His stomach muscles tighten and ripple where her palms gently graze. She kisses the skin of his shoulder, gentle, and the skin pebbles to her touch, like ice.

"You'll get yourself sticky with paint," he whispers, turning his head slightly, a small smile in his voice

She frowns. "Stop being stupid."

They gaze together upon the painting in silence. His breathing labored, her stomach like bricks in the sunshine. She hates that figure. She hates the hopelessness. Yes, she decides. Out of the endless array of paintings cluttering this car, she hates this one the most.

"I was five," he whispers, his voice rough, as if unfamiliar with speech. She takes in a breath, pulling closer, arms tightening. "My dad was helping a customer, so I decided to take the cake out of the ovens. Fancy thing. Capitol order. Taken hours of labor. But it was too heavy, and I allowed it to slip, burning my forearm before it clattered to the floor, ruining it.

"And I remember crying, looking at the mess I'd made when my mother came around the corner. She started yelling, I don't remember what, and I just kept staring at that stupid cake, as if I could concentrate and make everything right again." He laughs bitterly, a soft, angry sound. Pausing.

"And then?" she pushes, gently, turning her head, lips lightly grazing his shoulder.

He sighs, hesitating, stalling. He bites his lips, wondering, and she strokes his chest, as if to say everything will be okay. "And then she struck me. It was her granite rolling pin, heavy, had broken one of Rye's toes when it rolled off the counter once. My face first, then my stomach. I couldn't breathe, everything felt like mush."

She gasps.

"When it was done, Bannock pulled me upstairs, put me to bed, wiped away my tears. I couldn't sleep, moaning and feeling like I was burning inside out. In the morning, we left for school, but where the Merchants turn left, we turned right. They took me to your mother. Prim was so small, settled atop some blankets in the corner. Laying on her table, in so much pain, receiving such a kind mothering touch and gentle, calming words, I guess it was the first time I realized that my mom didn't love me."

She can't believe that her mother never said anything. But then she remembers the skinny legs and hopeless faces of children from the community home, they're disadvantaged lot in life. The starvation. The bruises and broken bones. Perhaps anywhere would have been better than that.

"Oh Peeta," she sighs, looking at the painting again, the teary eyes. Its striking, how small and powerless this boy, this child is to his violent surroundings.

"I hate her. She's my mom, I know. But I do. I hate her."

She detangles herself from his back, crawling on all fours to his front, coming to rest between Peeta and his painting. His eyes are downcast. Paint mars the planes of his chest. Her knees are sticky.

"Peeta, look at me," she whispers, rising onto knees, resting her weight back onto her heels. After a moment, his eyes raise, meeting her silver pools, troubled around the edges.

'Listen to me," she continues, grasping his face between her palms, like a sandwich, begging him to sense the truth in the words that can come so difficult for her. "Love is not unconditional. It isn't a tally, it isn't owed. You don't owe her anything. Do you understand?"

A nod.

She crawls fully into his lap, straddling him, arms wrapping around one another. She latches herself around his neck, mind whirling. A palm gently grazes the planes of her back. Maddening.

The morning floats again in her mind's eye. The speeches. The dangerous themes. Power and control.

"The nightmares. The speeches this morning, about control and power. It was all about this, wasn't it?"

Silence. A hand grazes, up and down, burning her skin through the thin sleep shirt she dons.

They rock, back and forth, the paint drying. His touch is maddening. Stroking her back, palming the bare of her hip. She's hyper aware of how little they wear, the bare skin of her thighs grazing his legs, torso, her arms wrapped around his bare, sweaty back. She trembles, need shooting through her pores. She shares Haymitch's plan, he nods. He suggests burning the painting, she offers to help. He yawns, she sighs.

She tries to show him that he isn't that young boy. She tries to make him feel wanted needed, as she clings to him tighter, blinking back her sorrow. She tries to swallow the emotion she feels suffocating her, yet he holds her tighter when she lets out a pathetic, needy sound that makes her red with shame. They rock. Her face buried, every inch of her skin pressed against his, she tries to make him feel less alone, struggling not to choke at the weight of it all.

"Come back to bed with me," she whispers, voice anxious, head leaning against his shoulder heavily, groggy.

The hand stroking her lower back beneath her shirt doesn't wane.

A kiss pressed again to his shoulder. Pebbled skin. The intake of breath.

"Stay with me," she murmurs into the skin, pulling closer.

He shifts, hands move, setting fire everywhere they touch, grazing the tops of her thighs, moving lower and sweeping around, cupping her high, on the back of her thighs as he stands in one sweeping movement. She yawns, legs dangling as they sway, every movement closer to her room.

A light kiss grazes her collarbone. She gasps.

"Always."

….

 _Endnote:_

 _This chapter was born slowly, inspired by children I work with. As an educator, I occasionally encounter children who had been abused in the past, or who are lacking a big nurturing figure in their lives, whether their foster children, living in abstract poverty, or an unstable home life. Thinking on their stories, I wondered how abuse could have impacted Peeta's character. I hope I gave it an inch of justice it deserves._


	8. District 4

Authors Note:

 _Guys, I am so sorry for the wait. THANK YOU to all for your patience! To everyone who has followed, favorited, reviewed, and read my story, you completely rock! I very much underestimated how heavily my workaholic nature would take over with working full time, my internship, full-time school, and preparing for grad school. However, I love my story, and this will be finished, I promise all! This is not, and will never be abandoned! My jumbled writing process, as forced by my schedule, makes it a bit harder to get a cohesive chapter going, so please know, that while my updates may take more time than I'd like, I am working on it, and you will see this story come to completion_

 _Once again…thank you all for your patience with me. Without further ado, off to the next District in our tale!_

…

She's starving.

She doesn't think she's ever eaten like this, at least, not since they became tributes. Chewing rapidly, sweet sauces swirling and condensing in her mouth, she reaches across Peeta, from where he looks at her softly, snatching two more pancakes, beating out Haymitch as he scowls, dirty fingernails extended.

She hears a slight laugh, but she doesn't care, drowning out the noises, her senses far too preoccupied with drenching her stack of pancakes with maple syrup, haphazardly munching on bacon as she waits those precious seconds, mouthwatering.

Maybe she just doesn't remember what hunger feels like anymore. Her thoughts fall to that horrid fat man at the gala the night before, the one who's smell, and touch made her skin crawl and nerves shiver. The one who made her want to be invisible more than she had ever wanted anything before in her life, dragging her very willing district partner back to the train, to bed, to warm sheets and warmer skin, long before the night had come to an end, lightning bugs lighting up their window view, legs intertwined. The thought of it all makes her sick.

"Katniss!" she hears vaguely through the fog, her head rising, her eyes refocusing.

Haymitch is laughing, loud incoherent bellows that fill the room, his chest heaving, face reddening. She feels fingers stroking her neck, caressing the top of her spin and down around the front of her collarbone. Katniss leans slightly into it, sighing, her bones shivering.

"Katniss!" she hears again, though this time when she looks up, she sees her escort, Effie, eyes aflame, chin jutted in annoyance.

"What?" she grumbles, Peeta's calming fingers suddenly feeling like an intrusion in the stark light of day.

"Manners child!" she trills, taken aback, dabbing ag the corners of her lips with a silk napkin delicately.

Chin jutting out, barely able to contain herself from rolling her eyes, her forehead creases, eyes narrow, shoulders tense, as the warm palm slips away. She looks down, rips apart he bacon, eyes downcast, her escort trilling in the background.

"What's on the agenda for today?" She vaguely hears Peeta ask, his hand returning to its home along the back of her hair.

"Yeah," she blurts, throwing the bacon back to its home atop her plate, swimming in sweet sauce. "Why aren't we moving yet? Shouldn't we be halfway to three by now?"

"Well children, this is the best part! The staff has chosen to delay our departure for repairs, so we get to stay in this paradise for another day, maybe two! It's like going on vacation all over again!" she trills, sighing, her palm resting delicately upon her chest, above the flesh in which her own heart would lie.

She seems despondent at the lack of response she receives from the three mentors in attendance.

"Oh District four is paradise on earth! The sea. The resorts. And oh, the parties. I've got just the dress in mind for you Katniss dear, you've just to go to the resort tonight. All the big players will be there!" the woman continues, smiling as she smooths out her napkin, like it's the most delicate, precious thing in her life.

"Got great liquor here too sweetheart," Haymitch jokes, bellowing, taking another drink from his flask, his attempts at sobriety during this tour quite unfulfilled.

"Oh hush you buffoon!," Effie scowls, staring at him with the glare with the force to stop the hearts of creatures great and small. The dining car falls silent of the scraping of utensils on dinner wear, as the two stare each other down before Haymitch ultimately given up, pressing his lips together, allowing Effie to snatch his precious drink.

Another delay. Another day away from home. Another extension. She just wants it to be over.

"I suppose it could be nice to explore the beach, get some fresh air," Peeta muses, trying to catch her gaze as he chews thoughtfully. A gaze in which, he will not receive.

She frowns, staring at her meal, drenched in sweet syrup.

Suddenly, the thought of food makes her sick.

…..

She traces the celling with her eyes, a motion that see has done what feels like thousands of times in the weeks they have spent upon this train, waiting and waiting. For the end? Until it begins? She isn't sure anymore.

The shadow is slowly disappearing. Noon is approaching. She can feel the sun, warm and potent through the open window, a salty breeze filtering in. And is such a strange sensation, warm and breezy and watery, so unfamiliar that she feels uninvited, standing upon turf of which is not, and will never be, her own.

Peeta told her last night, sleep on the brain as they laid together, sweating and hot, that its always warm here. A tropical paradise, his book said. Yet she doesn't understand this, sense cannot coexist with logic. The biting cold of 12 cannot coincide with the warm muggy air of 4. She doesn't understand how these worlds can intermingle, how they can still be in Panem, how this warm lovely place too is a place of death and servitude.

It doesn't make sense.

And so, she hums, curling further into their bed, content to wait the day out. The sooner they get to district 3, the sooner she can see her sister again, and return to where its cold, and the wind hurts, and everything, including her confusing relationship with the boy with the bread, makes sense.

A door opens and shuts, soft steps filter the room. She turns her head, watching him ready for bed, the slightest smile gracing her tips.

He moves, approaching her on the bed, as silent as his noisy feet can manage.

"I love that song," Peeta offers, his weight shifting the bed as she bunces softly before he settles back in beside her, leaning his bare back against the smooth, wooden headboard.

His heat radiates. The air muggy and hot, the bed soft and luxurious, yet a radiating furnace feels like a prison. She hadn't even realized what she had been singing until this moment, her face warming. The Hanging Tree. Sweat condenses on her brow. She leans away, detesting the very thought of warmth.

"You shouldn't"

"Well I do. It's beautiful. My dad used to sing it with us. His voice is positively dreadful, but he would sing it and remind us never to forget the voices of our people."

"Oh," she responds plainly, dumbfounded.

"I never really understood that, until now."

"That's a dangerous thought to have," she muses, curling onto her side, their foreheads nearly touching.

"It doesn't matter, does it? I mean, we're dead either way, right? If we're meant to lose our lives, can't we at least be ourselves?"

"We can't be ourselves."

"You can always be yourself," he argues, voice stout as he pulls he closer, gently. She wants to pull away, the heat stifling, yet the calm his touch emotes is impossible to deny,

"I always kept those thoughts to myself. I used to whisper them to the trees, until I met Gale. Sometimes though, I wished that Prim and I could walk throughout town, shouting to the rooftops without a care in the world."

"My brothers and I would walk around town, trying to find the hanging tree. One year, Rye decided that the schoolyard tree was he one. He got in a lot of trouble or reenacting that song during school one day. Needless to say, Mom smacked us all up-side the head, and we never whispered a word of the song again."

"Prim and I would braid necklaces of rope. I never understood why mother made us stop until I got older.

There's a silence, calm, but she can tell that her withering mood is ruining the peace of their day. Death and rope and sacrifice. This awful heat. Deceased children waiting around the corner. They may as well have gone to the hanging tree. It would have been a better death.

"I'm going to get some food, you want some?" he asks, raising from his spot, the bed dipping and springing back up as his weight shifts, sending her bouncing in his place. His shoulders flex as he pulls on a shirt. She's lost.

"Kat?"

"What?" she asks, sprung awake, suddenly recognizing the amused gaze of the boy who stands before her, eyes crinkled in the corners with mirth.

"Do you want anything from the kitchens? I think Brier said he was baking tarts today."

"I'm fine."

He scowls, or the best scowl a boy like Peeta can offer, his expression crinkling in a sort of annoyance nobody can take totally seriously. "I'll bring you some pineapple."

His uneven tread pounds out the room. A door shuts. Silence fills the void. And she feels utterly alone.

Maybe one day she will meet him by the hanging tree.

….

She's awful at card games. He beats her every time. This time, they play a memory game, sitting crossed legged on their bed, a bowl of half-finished fruit sitting to the side as they curl over their game, lost in thought. The boy is the epitome of concentration, bent over the facedown cards, studying them thoughtfully, before picking up his second choice, smiling radiantly to have found yet another match, adding the cards to his endlessly growing stack.

Yet she on the other hand, impulsive and rash, frowns, a very small deck of a couple cards sitting in front of her. She flips over a three, she knows that she's seen another recently. Maybe on the right side? She chooses one randomly, a five. Darn it.

He grins wildly, flipping over two threes in simple succession, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

But to him, maybe it is.

"Ugh!" she groans, throwing her head back in annoyance. "How are you so good at this?"

"I think he real question is, how are you so bad?" he teases as she flips over the wrong cards again, smiling smugly as he flips over another match, adding it to his pile.

She huffs. There's hardly any cards left. Surely random chance should get her a match soon. Surely.

Wrong. She moans.

"I think I'm going to start calling you kitty," he muses, adding another pair to his stack. Only two pair left.

"Why?" she asks, confused. She flips over a ten, pausing, her palm ghosting over the tops of the remaining cards. If she walks away having won only 2 pairs, she knows he will never stop easing her about it.

"I don't know, it fits. You're a small, little sassy thing," Peeta explains, leaning in as she chooses, flipping her card over. 10. 10. 10.

But of course, it's a Jack instead. Her eyes squint, groaning.

She's never going to live this down. At least Haymitch is happily absent.

"And you growl when you don't get your way," he adds with a laugh, matching the pairs, merciful offering her the pair of jacks, like a peace offer. And maybe that's what it is.

She flops back on the bed, trying to hide her grin.

"Winner puts the game away."

You just don't wanna do it Kit-"

"Don't say it!"

"Kitty."

"I hate it so much already," she whines, craning her neck to look upon him, shoulders shaking in silent laughter, sporting a grin so undeniable.

"I'll only use it when you deserve it then," he adds, fishing up the last of the cards from beneath her legs from where she refuses to move, sluggish, like a sloth.

He smiles at her, picking himself up, grimacing slightly at the stiffness in his limbs as he raises to his full height, throwing the cards in his pocket.

"Come on! We should go enjoy the sun like Effie said." He suggests, moving across the room to grab the backpack, the same one from district 7. It probably still has her scarf in it.

But she scowls, curling to her side as if to silently dismiss him. She can't pinpoint why, but suddenly, the thought of leaving this room is so overwhelming, so deceitful, that she would sooner bury herself within these feathers, then allow the boy to take her out, to the sun and heat and wind.

"Effie thinks it's a good idea to come here for vacation. It's probably more Avox ran hotels. As if there isn't enough…"

But then, she's jolted jarred from her curled up position on their bed before her stomach mashes against something hard. Disoriented, it takes her a moment to recognize that the hardness is in fact Peeta's shoulder, and another hot second to come to the realization that he is carrying her of all things.

"Let me down!" she cries, pounding his lower back gently, her breathe catching.

She's pissed. But over his shoulder. Her breathe caught. Her face burning. She can hardly keep the overwhelming urge to laugh and howl from exploding out of her entirely.

"We're gonna go outside and have fun, whether you like it or not Kitty," Peeta teases, hoisting her up higher. She can breathe now. She gins. She's pissed, but she can't stop smiling.

"Whatever," she barely forces out between her laughs. They round the corner and she gives up the fight, relaxing, leaning down and allowing her body to sway with Peeta. She wraps her arms around his torso, securing herself to his back, her hair swaying, laughing silently.

She can hear Haymitch howling, Effie fretting, yet she can't be bothered as she laughs and sways as the boy steps outside, the breeze waking her flesh with gentle nips.

…

The sun's burning hot. So overwhelmingly intense she swears she can feel her skin melting to goo from which she swings. She thinks he'll set her down then, her face hot, fingers beginning to sweat, yet he doesn't, gliding across the soft sand, swinging her back and forth.

She wriggles, uncomfortable. It's too hot. She can't breathe. This was an awful idea. So, he swings her back over, cradling her in his arms instead, continuing to walk as she blinks, struggling to adjust to the blinding light sparkling across the waters beyond.

"Happy?" he asks quietly, lips tugging up at the corners as he continues walking.

She sighs in annoyance.

"I can walk, you know!"

"Sure, you can, but this is more fun." He laughs, hoisting her up higher. The sand is softer here, jolting them more severely with each unsteady step he takes.

"I think I liked you better before the kitty incident."

He finally puts her down when she can taste the sea. The sand is warm and hot, soft, filling every crevice between her bare feet. It's smooth, and she can't help but bury her toes deeper, wiggling them in the warm sediments.

"I never imagined it would be so smooth," he muses, sand gliding between his fingers as he reaches down to gather another handful, watching it trickle back down to the earth. Like a waterfall.

She smiles, leaving him there in the sand, musing over the textures. She scans the water's edge, steadily making her way there, despite the softness of the terrain. A far as the eye can see, there is an endless expanse of the bluest water, casing foam and mist with the crashing of its waves. The wind stings her eyes, whips her hair behind her, and it is perhaps the most exhilarating sensation she has ever experiences.

Though a sandy beach, her gaze is caught on a rocky patch perhaps a quarter mile, probably less, down the beach. She looks behind her, he's getting his sketchbook, and content that he will be busy for some time, hikes up her pants and races down the beach, sweat flinging down her fingertip, the salt fresh on her tongue.

She runs all the time. She runs in the woods, tracking down game for her and Gales families and the Hob. She runs on the treadmills with Peeta every morning, though she loathes it. And she ran for her life in their games. But she never runs for pleasure, for joy, and it's an inspiring feeling. Floating on the ground as if it were her own home. And she runs here, sand filling her shoes, and this feels like home to. Waves crash in the background, sweat drips into her eyes, and she smiles.

Catching her breath, she takes in her surroundings, a rocky shore nestled between a sandy paradise. The waves crashing so hard against the rocks the mist covers her in a thin layer of dew in seconds, cooling her melting skin. The sand is damp. Intertidal creatures crawl around, heading from rock to rock, seeking cover as she invades their precious home.

The rocks catch her eyes first. She sinks down, studying them for a moment. Strange growths cover them that she doesn't understand. Like shells, she thinks. She picks up several, disturbing the peace of tiny crabs and other creatures in the process, contemplating these growths before putting the rocks back, whispering a silent apology to the creatures with which she has disturbed.

She walks carefully on small sharp walks, carefully minding her foot placement as she explores further without a sound. She smells the salt in the air as another wave crashes, covering her in another light sheen of salty fluid as she searches.

She tries to imagine what Peeta would see, that boy of theirs that lives in a world of grey, who sees the beauty in the mundane, who paints vibrant colors of the misery. What would he see? Would he see sharp, uncomfortable, strange rocks as she, or something else entirely?

Out of the corner of her eye, something catching onto the light of the sun overcast, sparkling brilliantly for a moment before she can turn away, as if beckoning her to come closer.

She gazes down the beach. The boys running her way. The waves crash. The critters fret around. And she looks upon the object, sparkling against the sapphire sky.

…..

"To add to your collection of beautiful things," she offers, handing him her rock, slipping it quickly into his hand before he can blink, averting her gaze. Embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I-I don't know what it is. But you're an artist. And the color is pretty. And I don't know if you even want it – and you don't need to keep it – but-but I thought you might like to have it and-"

"Kat, take a deep breath," he interrupts, smiling brilliantly at her tense smile. Face red. She's blushing. Eyes crinkled in a subdued joy, he opens his palm, gazing upon the gift, and beautiful it is. He knows immediately what it is she has stumbled across, and what a treasured gift it truly is.

"It's a sea glass," he murmurs, flipping it over, appreciating how the light bounces off the polished surface. "It's beautiful, thank you," he smiles, a gentle smile, looking her in the eyes as he slips it into his pocket, carefully.

"You're welcome," she looks down, toes digging into the dark sand.

They walk back down the beach towards their belongings, a sketchpad resting delicately in the sand, corner covered in the earth, moved by the wind. His cheeks are already pink. He'll be sunburnt by the end of the day if they don't go in soon. She knows it.

…

"Come on Kat," Peeta grins, throwing his shirt to the ground, sprinkling sand in the wind as he turns, breathless, moving towards the sea.

"Can you swim?" She startles, jolting up in the loose ground, her limbs slipping in her calm panic. Breathe catching.

He just smiles. That same gentle smile that makes her toes curl deeper into the warm loose sand. Cheeks flushed. Hair windswept.

"No."

He smiles, turning again, limping slightly to the shoreline, his fake leg digging farther into the sand than his other limb. The sun casts bright shadows along the planes of his back, sparkling along the crest of each wave. She almost allows herself to enjoy the beautiful sight. Almost.

"Peeta No!" She shouts, forcing her limbs up languidly, digging further into the soft sand below, seeming to grow finer with every step she takes.

He throws his cap in the sand, as if taunting her, pressing forward. She can taste mid-afternoon air, breezy and warm. The wind prickles goosebumps upon her trembling skin. Tire tracks. Apparently, the residents drive cars here.

The water tickles her toes as it gushes forward, with a force that surprises her, and Peeta for that matter, as she watches him shake and struggle to keep his balance from where he stands ahead of her. Her pants are wet, she realizes, soaked and clinging to her legs at which point she realizes she has neglected to remove any of her clothing.

It's amazing, she thinks, the force of the water, as she stands there, mesmerized, as the coming tide buries her feet beneath the smooth, soft sand, compressing and tightening, until she feels as though she may forever me stuck. Shells scattered throughout broken and fractured by the power of the sea, seaweed, crabs and critters milling about. It is truly an alien world.

Her heart nearly stops as Peeta wades in deeper, past his waist as he turns, bracing for the coming tide, before it's there, lifting him above the ground as he coasts to shore, landing on his hands and knees mere feet from her, was a sharp laugh and smiling eyes.

"You've got to try this Katniss!" He shouts, up and running back out to the deep, his shorts riding low on his waist with the weight of it all.

Yet her cheeks are warm, and she wanted to sleep. And she certainly doesn't want to spend her day watching Peeta, preparing to risk her on life, and probably die herself, when this powerful undercurrent drags him down.

So instead she scowls at him, frowning, forehead creasing, and stomps into the opposite direction. She's hot. Her skin feels burnt and raw. She's hungry. She wants to sleep. This I stupid.

She hears his thundering steps, splashing water in every which way before it happens, the earth leaving the bottoms of her feet, the world turning upside down as he heaves her over his shoulder.

"Let me down!" she groans, slapping the small of his back with her fists, rolling her eyes in annoyance. _Not again_.

"I've told you once Kitty, and I'll tell you again. We're gonna have fun whether you like it or not." He teases, wading in deeper. Another wave crashes, mist coats the backs of her legs.

Suddenly though, she's soaring, flying for a moment before landing in the cold water, fully submerging before touching the bottom. Sand in everywhere, up her nose, in her mouth, in every crevice of her body as she lays there for a moment, before sitting up ad rising. Her body heavy, hair dripping, she slowly comes to her feet, murder on the mind.

She's going to kill Peeta Mellark.

Turning to face a howling boy, she gives him the fiercest scowl she can muster, growling under her breathe as she whips her soaking shirt over her hand and peels her pants down her legs, leaving the articles of clothing haphazardly floating in the coming tide. Perhaps to be lost forever.

He swallows. Eves wide.

She pulls her hair out of her eyes. Dripping.

"Your dead, bread boy," she growls, racing towards him, water spraying away from her body as she runs, sinking into the soft sand below.

His eyes wide, like a punished child, he lets out a laugh, scrambling away, as if he can evade his graceful partner until the end of time.

He races to the shallow waters, racing along the water's edge in soggy sand, heaving breathes, unsteady limbs. One step, two steps, a stumble, and she launches, latching onto this back with all four limbs, like a baby chimpanzee, sending them both tumbling to the ground, spinning once, twice, before they settle.

He hovers above her, face pensive, those wet golden locks aflame in the brilliant sunshine, and suddenly she's smiling and laughing, howling through her grin. And she can't help it. She knows she's supposed to be angry, but not when he's looking at he so sweetly, and not when the sun is making those blue eyes twinkle, and not when the coming tide surrounds them momentarily, washing it all away.

Even though he's dripping water into her eyes, she thinks he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

And she isn't sure how it happens. She doesn't know who makes the first move and where they meet, but suddenly his lips are on hers, moving and molding together to a song that only they can understand, pulsing again and again, like a sunset, opening itself to the world for the first time.

It's the sweetest thing she has ever tasted, and she's taken up in the ease, the simplicity of it all, of how right it feels. She wraps her arms around his, wrapping her legs around his waists, clinging tightly with all four limbs, as if he will float away if she doesn't.

He traces her bottom lip with his tongue, she traces lines on his back. He brushes a stray hair from her cheek, she bites his bottom lip, puling it into her mouth before releasing with a pop.

He's everywhere, and nowhere all at once. Their lips move together in tandem. Their bodies fit together like a puzzle piece she had no idea she was searching for. She's alight with sensation, floating like a cloud above the sea.

"Stop smiling" He whispers against her lips, breathing into her mouth, his own mouth turning upwards, the tide coming in again, rocking them bides for a moment before receding back to the ocean waters.

But she smiles harder, as does he, their teeth clashing together, the kiss ruined. He smiles into her mouth, she clenches onto his locks, harder still, he laughs, the air escaping beyond her lips, his arms wrap around the small of her back, pulling her flush against every piece of him. She gasps. The sun beats down.

And they smile.

…

The sun is setting, painting the sky with a brilliant array of pinks and reds and purples as two figures walk along the shore line. The boys arm around the girl, she leans into it all. His head peers down, focused on their task at hand, yet she looks up, learning the planes of his face, humming in response to his musings, as if she can pay attention, her senses on overdrive.

Suddenly, Peeta steps away, robbing her of warmth as she is jolted away from her musings, landing suddenly and with a great thud back into this real plane. She frowns, chill running up her spine, robbed of the touch she needs.

"Look at this, Kitty," he murmurs, his gaze peering at the round shell below. He's squatting, inspecting the damp sand as the sea comes forward once more, threatening to bog them both down under its sharp and inciteful grasp. The breeze chills her bones, and she's hyper aware that they're still in their intimates, the daylight quickly waning.

She scowls at the name. He'll never stop now that he's started, she knows. He looks at her, grinning that mischievous grin. He knows he's driving her crazy. And they both know that neither is going to do anything about it.

"Come back here and keep me warm," she whines instead, her skin pebbling. Though, perhaps she doesn't need him to warm her back up, for that gentle smile he gives, peering up at her from down there where he looks at the shells, warms her insides into liquid.

"You wouldn't be so cold if you hadn't thrown your clothes into the ocean like a willy nilly"

She falls into him as he stands. Arms wrapped around waist, she steals his heat, greedily. He's like a furnace, radiating warmth for her freezing body, her cold feet, her icy hands. Her fingertips graze his stomach, taking the promised warmth as he sucks in a breath, tensing at her icy digits.

"For you," he leans back, handing her a round disk, the item hat caught his attention in the first place. She peers at it for several moments. Perfectly round, a shell. It's so familiar, she knows that she's seen it, yet she can't quite pinpoint where she knows of it.

Until suddenly it hits her as she stares upon its natural engraving. In the district 4 book they read, an encyclopedia of aquatic life and shellfish. A sand dollar, popularly collected by children during playtime, and between courting teens. A symbol. A gift, for someone you love.

Water enters her eyes, and she tries to wipe that stupid grin off her face, but she can't hide the fact she is so desperately moved. Stupid really, tears over a shell of all things, yet she clings to it tighter, pulling it closer, safer, as if she can protect it forever.

For someone you love.

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice breaking, brushing grains of wet sand from the gift. Her fingers shake, trembling in the evening air.

And so, when she gazes up at him with those happy tearful eyes, he kisses her, the wind blowing, the skin pink, the sun disappearing over the horizon, a sweet kiss, a kiss he's given her a thousand times over the course of their tour, yet this time, this kiss means something, this kiss tells something. Of what she isn't quite sure, yet as he picks her up, walking through the wet sand, their smiling lips molding together, teeth clashing, ruining the kiss, grinning, she can't help but laugh through it all, her breath disappearing into his mouth from where they press together.

"Your so sunburnt merchant boy," she murmurs, staring at his red checks, noticing how he flinches at the touch.

But he kisses her again, his face hot like an oven, rivaling her freezing body. Its soft, and sweet, and rising and falling and yes and too slow and never enough, as the sun continues to float beyond he horizon, silently, like a whisper.

She swears it tastes like hope.


End file.
